My perfect face

No, I’m not conceited, and I’m not talking about I don’t like my face… and my face isn’t perfect. Ok?
Let me explain, ok?

Good.

There’s a girl who has a perfect face (well, it’s perfect for me). I’m an artist. I’d like to draw and paint. And I think her face is simply charming, fabulous, wonderful, divine… In other words, perfect.
Of course, I like her perfect face. And no, I’m not talking about I’d like to have that face (I’m a man, and I don’t care about my face). When I say “my perfect face” I’m using the word “my” for affection.

She is a friend of mine, and I’m obsessed with her face since I know her. Because of that: since I know her (from her 15) until today (now she has 22) I have lived obsessed with her perfect pretty face.

So, what bothers me now? Almost nothing… she’s in France, that’s all. And I can’t paint her as many times as I’d like.

Oh, may be I am a stubborn boy… but I wish (oh, how I wish!) to paint her face.

Paint, paint, paint…