"I had an idea, but...."

"I had an idea, but..."

I looked up.
Eternity was smiling at me.
A thought had graced everything above with wondrous potential. This thought, this idea that I somehow had managed to pinch out of the winds behind my eyes, it hovered so close I could rub it my nose against. I loved being so near to it that I took its clarity for granted; I failed to remain enraptured by its potential and instead merely gawked at it.
Foolishly, I settled for beauty and sacrificed significance.
Maybe I can recall that thought. It seemed destined, as if the clouds had ringed around it and lassoed constellations in an effort to speak to the stargazer on the ground.
Their message, that gift of an idea, was a different color than the sky I was used to. It looked instead like the color of the thrill of discovery, like a solid chrome suggestion in an otherwise pool of water. As opposed to the familiar dusty yellow horizon, my idea was clearer than the naked night canopy. My tongue hungered for the taste of its name.
I'll promise to respect it, should it return. I know now not to waste a thought; there's really nothing more preciously unique than that.
Oh I think I remember what that thought was: I've found myself to be a believer in human perfectibility, in a way. I only say that because it seems to me perfection is a malleable concept, and so it could be reshaped to fit our satisfaction. Perfection rhymes with divinity when comparing their meanings, I think. This could be a way to play with the idea of God. (Let's meddle with the sanctity of the reason that is pedestaled beneath creation.)

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Maybe I'll never know what I'm trying to say. Maybe my ideas will always be as faraway and as beautiful to me as the gems of the night sky.
Stars are my words, eager, glittering
in my eyes lifetimes away from what they really
Are.