an unrehearsed universe

Scramble

“You remind me of myself,”

hard luck and harder living
worn into her face
each wrinkle with a tale to tell
that would make rogues blush,

“when I was young as you. 
Not too long ago neither,
no matter what you think.” 

This, then,
was the face of my future,
the price of pleasure for a lifetime
spent whoring for
with
cruel men and crueler drink – 

To believe that would be intolerable.

I have to pretend
that she does not know
ignore what she foretells
ignore the small tremors
ignore what brought me
staggering
to her door
pathetically grateful that, yes,
she has something on hand.

Even if it is something
I would otherwise
never touch because let us face facts,
there are degrees of madness,
lines drawn in sand with wind,
and tonight of all nights,
to come home to find
an empty closet – 

well, anyone could be excused for thinking
this called for something a little more serious
than what I normally dabble in. 

I am secure in the knowledge:
I passed the point of stopping
when I wanted to
a very long time ago; but
that being said

I am nowhere near the far reaches
of dissipation
the folds of her face seem to imply
simply because
one-for-one turned into one-for-five
then one-for-ten and twenty. 

“Give it to you half-price,”
half-price after jacking it up
thrice that amount and me the loser
many times over.

“Word of advice, a pretty girl like you,
find yourself
a man ‘fore you end up alone.” 

I thank her effusively as much for the
unwelcome advice as anything else.

I touch my face with cold fingers
the skin there brittle,
too old for someone as young as me,
and make my way home anxiously.

The promise of oblivion is
a stronger lure than fear of the future
ever could be.