I once met a painter and fell in love with him

In an instant. God, he was such a peculiar man

He only painted locals, living in the house their grandparents parents

Also loved, doing mundane chores, having ordinary gestures

Casually cursing in their mothers tongue

He’d stare at them for hours, overwhelmed by awe, spend

Days on end painting their common faces

He’d say: I hope one day people start loving themselves

As much as they renounce imitating others

We eventually split when he showed me the painting of myself 

That I longfully awaited: he imagined me with wavy hair, tanned skin

A blonde moustache covering an overflowing upper lip, one of the locals, 

I figured. God, he was such a peculiar man

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