The weight of empty pockets

Counting these bills, creased and soft,

fingers tremble on their last breath.

The meter light blinks—red, unblinking,

like a heartbeat slipping under ice.

My wallet lies open, tongue split,

frayed and ragged, whispering no.

Each note a promise I never kept,

folded thin as the air I can’t catch.

Empty pockets don’t hold dreams,

they hold the silence after the phone goes dead,

a cold house where laughter forgot its name,

and the dull ache of owing tomorrow

what you don’t have today.

This money-less moment is a weight,

and I wear it like worn leather—

soft but cracking under the strain.