Constellations In My Coffee

I'm imagining constellations in my coffee, and I dream I'm gulping down every drop. Choking on a billion burning suns. I hope they make me brighter, but that picture just can't quite form in my mind.
And I don't know much about space bu someone once told me that we're made of stardust. Suns burned and burst so that I could live, and for what? How many stars had to die just so that I could become nothing? Every day I with that I could make that sacrifice mean something.
It makes me wonder, though, why we place our dreams in breaths. Birthday candles, eyelashes, dandelions. We cast them out into the sky and watch them drift away. Or when we hold our breaths when we go through tunnels, and when we're finally free we exhale a great puff of air, and we send our wishes away with it.
Where is it that we're hoping they go? Back to the sky, back to the space that birthed us long before we ever knew what we might become?
And we don't dare speak our dreams out loud, out of fear that they won't come true. We hold them secret inside of ourselves until we can breathe them out in a language that we hope the universe understands.