you're getting old

you're running out
of time
the therapist says. look at you,
at this age
coming unglued,
untethered.
full of anxiety and pain.
you only have a few years
left.
why aren't you having fun,
why aren't you in
paris, or rome,
or Bombay
enjoying your golden
years with a loved one.
her voice is soft and lilting.
the couch in her office
is full of feathers,
the walls are a pale grey,
the light is low
and warm.
it's easy for me to drift off
and forget my troubles
when i'm there.
what?
I ask her when she stops
talking,
did you say something?