Empty Pockets

At the bottom of my bag, a crumpled receipt,

Each line a reminder of nights bittersweet.

I felt like a king with a pocket full of dreams,

Now each empty space echoes desperate themes.

Counting my coins, fingers brushed the metal,

A heavy decision weighed down like a kettle.

What once felt like laughter now hovers like shame,

Each empty pocket whispers a different name.