If My Words Were Currency

If all my words were currency, were magic and were spells, I’d write the world into a place where they could buy and sell. I’d have castles built from poetry, and mountains raised from song; the rushing rain would fall in colors and my favorite books last long. I would buy the sea and stars from all the sentences I’d bleed; constellations, fireflies, new notebooks I don’t need. I’d write letters in the woods, if they could make sunflowers grow, and if maples sprung from sounds, I’d sing aloud the songs I know. If my pen were a plane ticket, and its ink a travel agent, I’d write the courses of the moon and find myself within the pages. And if my words had wings that could sift through sands of time, I would reach through dusty shores and write you home in the first line. If all my words were currency— but, in fact, they are. Dollar bills can give a paper cut, and words can leave a scar. You can coin them all with kindness, and work grace into your mint, or have them stamped with insincerity, giving them a sullied tint. A matter greater than our finance, we must know this to our core. Every word we say is currency, so how will you spend yours?