Empty pockets, colder nights

I stood outside the store,

card declined, cheeks burning red

as my wallet breathed the emptiest sigh.

Crumpled receipt flaps in the wind,

mocking me with red ink

that’s colder than the frost biting my fingers.

No crumbs to carry home,

no coin to warm these hands.

The line behind me lengthens,

quiet eyes asking why,

while I fold back into myself,

a ghost with empty pockets,

no shelter from the silence.

No warmth buys a cold night’s sleep,

and I carry the chill alone.