I'm painting again.
I start with a drawing and I put in the colors.
Each stroke of the brush has a story behind it.
Each color, shade, and angles.
Oh, how I miss painting.
Everyday, I look at your pictures.
I try to memorize the edges of your face.
The color of your skin and hair.
The depth in your eyes.
I make the painting as beautiful as possible.
I make sure the edges of your face are accurate.
The color of your skin and hair precise.
The depth in your eyes unerring.
The last painting I did was perfect.
But when I gave it to its owner, he gave it back to me.
He said it didn't look like him.
I stopped painting after that.
He said the painting was not him.
The edges of his face were wrong.
The color of his skin and hair wrong.
The depth in his eyes wrong.
The painting was perfect to me.
But he said it didn't look like him.
That painting is still with me.
But I can't find it anymore.
I'm afraid to continue painting you.
The last painting I did hurt two people.
I need to be careful this time.
I need to paint you exactly right.
I need you to be perfect.
