I Am the In-Between

We are the predecessors of dust. The successors, too. 
What exists in-between the two makes the difference

to those that believe in meaning. They say that mortality 
is playdough made of skin, blisters, and scrapes. This is

malleable by our evolutionary traits, by our everyday 
encounters that shape us. I once believed that I was

the sponge, easily porous to your habits. You taught me
of fragility, to shatter at your command. I didn’t understand

why my value treaded between too much and not enough
until oozing out the cracks of your claustrophobic box.

I am the glue, the common denominator between crisis 
and flourish. I am my own catalyst, my own consequence

and celebration. I am a circuit you cannot snuff, sandwiched 
by dust, made up of the tangible—bones, blood, skin, hair—

and the abstract, the hard-to-grasp. Triumph and misery, all 
insecurities, I am matter and I do matter in spite of your

reasoning. No matter how you spin the narrative, I am both
stagnant and ever-changing, the flexible in-between ambiguity.

I may be merely a gap between dust, but if you attempt to grab
hold of my worth, I will slip between your outstretched fingers.