I had always thought of myself as an artist of some sort. That is, until I met you. It was only then that I learned what art is, where it comes from. When I met you, I only wanted to paint with the browns and oranges I saw in your eyes. I only wanted to write the words that fell from your lips. I only wanted to play the notes your voice guided me to. And when you left, I couldn't paint, couldn't write, couldn't play. I could only sing of my heartache, but even that wasn't art.  There's no beauty in sorrow.