He is of fair face, fair as willow maiden hair and a voice once kin to the wind, but captured and enveloped within the most delicate of wind pipes.
They say he moves like windchimes, pleasantly swaying to where ever he sees fit, only to return in one piece when the orchestra of adventurous air ceases to play.
Skin like oil paint, smooth and perfectly toned to capture every length of celestial light, no matter where he turns.
And tangling between his fingers and spilling from his lips, light blotches of softened petals bloom on the branches of saliva from his mouth.
They cascade down his figure from an inky fountain within his mind, endless and ever-growing, a deep, dense coal-toned abyss that brings life to every feature of his always changing body.
He is a prince; a prince of ink stains and soft wind, Of delicate lifeforms with black-bolded bones,
Of intertwined words that slip the mind, only for him to draw them back deep inside.