Soft dew sharpens a blades of grass in time for the sun to polish the fresh green.

Constellations take on a veil of warmth and the moon turns its back as to stand in the shadow of her older brother.

There's a certain world that exists between dawn and the departing night sky. Stars shaking hands with the bright blue firmly, but never enough for a final goodbye.

Interstellar limbo.

Maybe the space between is the path we travel after we press our clothes and carve dates in stone.

Floating in between the ticks of the clock, weaving about. Not exactly sure where you're going but you know how to get there. And you're not clear if you'll get a warm welcome when you arrive but you're not exactly terrified.

The porch light is on.

Step on the welcome mat and open the door. You're home.