Bills on the table

Counting bills on a cracked table,

money spread like leaves in winter,

edges curling, soft and tired.

Numbers climb but the room stays hollow,

a quiet that settles deeper than debt.

I hold the weight of cash in my hands—

heavy, yes, but not heavy enough

to press out the emptiness

that lives in the corners where money doesn’t reach.

Stacks grow but the ache stays,

empty pockets, full hands,

a silence loud enough

to drown the rustle of paper,

a feeling still unfinished.