We drove six hours to reach the spot. I was reluctant but someone told you about the sunset and the scenic beauty. For you, being able to recreate that on paper was art. I didn’t want to go.

I saw sun burst flares in the sky and lakes and tributaries running wild. You told me how you wanted to sketch the lake and described how well it sat among the laps of the mountains. It was beautiful . But I wondered what art you found there.

I watched you sketch for almost an hour and saw how you would narrow your eyes as you tried to get every crease perfectly. I traced that wrinkle down your face and ran out of numbers while counting reasons why I loved you. We didn’t speak nor look at each other and I thought that’s what art did. It doesn’t show you anything but itself. And I smiled to myself at all those times you called our love, Art.

You chewed on your pencil as you looked at your sketch a few times. I did nothing but stand there and wonder how we even got here.

Something about that evening, I thought, would stay with me forever. I walked back to you as you dusted yourself, checking your sketch for the last time. You didn’t even realise I was back there.

Standing by that river, below the orange sky , you found the perfect scenary that could transfigure into art.

And standing behind you,
I found mine.

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