The Currency of a Heart

I once loved a man

whose heart was a vault

not a metaphor,

but steel-walled,

coded,

and locked.

His chest didn’t echo

with rhythm or warmth,

but with the crisp hush

of freshly printed bills.

I swear,

when he laughed,

it sounded like change

falling into a wishing fountain

already dry.

He didn’t bleed

he invested.

Didn’t kiss

he calculated.

He could recite the Dow Jones

faster than a prayer.

He knew every loophole,

but not one soft place

to land.

Once, I gave him a flower.

He pressed it between two $100 bills

and called it sentimental interest.

We built a life of marble floors

and empty echoes.

The kind of silence

you can buy.

And when he said

he loved me,

I believed it.

Until I asked what he meant

and he showed me

a necklace,

a receipt,

and a prenup.

It took years to realize

he wasn’t made of stone.

He was made of paper.

And every beat

of his dollar-stuffed heart

was just another deal

being signed

in bloodless ink.

So I left.

Not for someone richer,

not for someone poorer.

But for someone

who still had a pulse.

Who didn’t count love

in carats

or capital gains.

Someone who cried

without shame,

and laughed

without calculating ROI.

Someone

who knew

that a full heart

beats louder

than a full bank.

For those who learned too late

that money can’t buy rhythm,

or rest,

or peace,

I hope you find

what beats for real.