I'm tired of hearing
About how we're all
Made of stardust

Stars, stars, stars
Like so many
Shakespearean sonnets

Maybe I want
The sliding plates of my wrist
To be made from the jawbone
Of a T-Rex

And the electrons in my brain
To have once sparked down
In a rainstorm
Over ancient China
The night the emperor died

And I wish I could go back
8 million years
To make sure that the charcoal
In your sketchbook
Is made from the roots
Of your favorite flowers
And press their petals
Into your chalk pastels

The steel second hand in the watch
Of the man in the elevator
Certainly isn't the dainty spun glass
Of a supernova
But rather the sliver of the sword
That my ancestor threw
At the feet of his
On the moors of Gaul
All those years ago
Its ancient ticking
Reminding me of debts unpaid
While the soles of his shoes
Are worked from the tar
That killed my wrist bones' sire
Eons past

We're not made of stardust,
We're made of each other,
Every atom accounted for
Between us
With nowhere to go
But on
And on
And on
Chasing each other through
Every metamorphosis
Until they've clashed and kissed
So many times
That we rip the cosmos in half
And catch fire in the debris

We're not made of stardust.
We're making it.