Spent

Spent

The afternoon sun fell low, a tired gold,
as we counted coins that had slipped through our fingers—
each note a whisper of evenings once bright,
now folded flat in the hollow of our palms.

Our laughter, once a river, now a trickle,
spent on the quiet hum of ordinary days,
yet in the stillness we find a different wealth,
the calm that lingers when the purse is empty.