It’s what happens in the in-between that defines the significance, the color, the weight of the bookends of our existence. Thousands upon thousands of words collected in between two slabs of marble: all of one’s thoughts and heart and belief and memories collected in between two ears separated by a couple of inches. In between two hunched shoulders beats a muscle that pumps life through viens to fingertips and toes, ushering color up my neck to my cheeks when you say hello, in between that moment when our eyes meet and when I’m the first to look away. And then there’s that in-between moment when you’re not awake but you’re not yet asleep and your body sways in between your sheets an mattress and the exploding cupboards shutting suggest artillery and clinking dishes suggest toasts at dinner parties in between thoughts of your day and memories of kisses, tangible on your lips in the in-between separating the conscious and the unconscious. And what do I think about in the in-between? How do I spend the precious coins of my time in between the ritualistic yet ever-changing routine of day? My mind devotion, my leisure in the in-between speaks of how I spend my present, and why. Her in-between is full because she fears the in-between. Two years in between life and life and she’s a zombie. My in-between is wide open spaces that you fill with life and laughter. My in-between is filled with thoughts of you and colors of the past and future, dancing together in this kaleidoscope of my present. In the in-between is where your fingers lace into mine. In the in-between is where life is called life, love is called love, tears shed pain and joy, and the inches in between our ears flow through the muscle in between our shoulders that sends life to the pen in between our fingers, that write about the in-between.