Interstitial

The gap between the things that are the main thing
The not done and not said that define us more than their obvious cousins
The space that we give to let people step up into
The tiny pores that let us breathe, the nothing that makes up most of us
The jagged breath between phrases that makes us love a singer more than their pearly notes
The lost hours that are filled with mystery and wonder
The end of the book that was never written
The spaces in dirt that after drought spurn the deluge, but softly does it will oblige by holding water and feeding life