insatiable over the bridge

I have this old bridge that I draw. It’s broken, there are cracks in the bricks, but the water underneath is undisturbed. There are shrubs on both sides, but there’s never anyone at the bridge. However, there’s always some reminder that a human was once here. It comes in the form of a bouquet in the water below, or a lingering umbrella. It’s too bad that old bridge only comes out as a sketch. Messy, like it follows the uneven pattern of the wind that blows under the bridge, but decisive, like the planes of the bridge have been memorized and my pen knows where to go.

I drew it in a crowded bus, when I thought everyone was asleep, the same song played on repeat in my ears. But it seems you woke up, and took a glance at the bridge that was only meant for my worst fears and quietest moments. Then, as we walked into the hotel lobby, I mentioned that I had been drawing and you told me you liked my sketch, of a place that only exists within my dreams. I brushed it off, but in that moment, I wanted to look into your eyes and pull the color out to paint the waters below my bridge. I wanted to draw you into my world.

Then, a while later, I sat at a Parisian cafe, when a horrible realization fell at my feet. What if that piece becomes my favorite? What if every painting that I paint, every masterpiece that I tie my soul into, isn’t enough? What if I grab every single color of the earth and it still doesn’t capture the color I saw in your eyes? Yes, Van Gogh painted Starry Night, but what if Garden of Courting Couples was his favorite, because someone whom he loved saw it? Maybe his favorite pieces are his sketches of Sien. I think about it, because I could have painted every bridge on the Seine, every brick in Paris, and every flower that grew from cracks in the cobblestone, and it might not be enough. I could hang in the Louvre, and millions could see my finished works, the ones that took time and solitude.

Yet, I will always think to myself, what if the colors and subjects cease to matter? Just because it was seen by you, what if the best thing I ever did was an old sketch in the back of the bus?