Exchange Rates

After hours. When the vault is closed. We count the wealth we remember having seen as it passed through us. Pressing our ears to the steel until they feel frozen. Chanting silly rhymes as we skip imaginary ropes.

The small denominations, you can hear them. They each have their own songs. But the big bills. The real riches don't make any sound at all.

What we have, not really ours. Placeholders. Shadows in empty vaults.

I never thought life would be better than this. I just never thought it would last this long. That I would let it.

I know the definition of both addict and of recovery. And the closer I look, the more similar they seem.

After hours the vault is sealed and everything we think is ours becomes someone else's.