Paintings.

I painted a picture. And now it's framed, off somewhere else, being admired by someone else. All I'm left with is a few paint marks on my face from where it splashed back at me, from where I spilled just a little bit of it's color on my hand. Soon, those marks will be gone too, as they will be washed away. Then, I'll only be left with the memory of how I could've painted that picture so much differently, how I could've put more life into it, more heart, more time. But I guess I was trying to create something that was already good enough, and is now perfect for someone else.