​You, you think you’re made of stardust?

You’re just like everyone else, made of flesh and bones and sinew.
And, and a few million stories.
Like, how the maid’s voice irritates you to no extent.

Like how you almost always choose butterscotch over chocolate.

Like how you can’t stop admiring your own handwriting.
You’re made of blood cells and T cells and what not,

But of words and swords and paper and pepper too.

Of lowlying love affairs and interracial sex,

Of girl crushes and boys who didn’t move beyond the friendzone you stepped in by mistake,

Of senseless conversations on rainy nights,

Of Gmail drafts and screenshots yet to be deleted.
I’d give you a long list of things you’re made up of and not, but honey, will I justify your being? Will we ever make sense? Will you ever cease to be?
You’re not made of stardust, you are stardust. Magic, miracles and everything else that the world half believes in. You’re the city, breathing in and out. You’re the architect of a hundred invisible castles in motion. 
This is going nowhere. I should stop. Stop, but why? Go, but where? Go home, go to sleep, go away. 
Tick tock, tick tock, the sky is almost clear. Honey, do you see the stars now? Go, look at yourself, look well. 
You’re not made of stars and stardust. You’re the entire fucking sky.

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