There is a small space
Existing between your fingers and your wrist.
It holds anthems and artistry,
Composed from a thousand decaying bones.
They sing you awake with the colors
Of those proud redwoods and high tides
Who grew from the souls in your palm.
Your mind takes the form
And sinks into currents of salt water and soil.
I can see you sing with the pleasure
At the sight of your success.
After all, I was the one who doubted
And that makes your transformation
Holy.
The light slides through
Small holes of cheap blinds.
Dawn descends upon your waking frame,
And I can distantly hear the moaning ivory.
Then time holds her steady breath
As I drink in your consciousness,
Always too strong for me to keep.
There is a small space
Between your love and your survival.
It holds black holes and new stars
Composed from all the elements of destruction.