Z

First impressions.

Arrogant. Az...A...

Where ink was to be craftily painted, it was traced with gold.

On the bulk of his arm.

Adjacent to his chest.

Where his heart is found pounding in heat, contrary to his cold shoulders.

Eyes outlined in focus, veiled in mystery, and marked by pain.

The scar on his eye is the first page of a novel, no doubt. 

And yet he would have you believe every time his lips took to shape

that he has no care in this world but his ambition.

The black stallion he rides is common among his people, 

and he would seem to belong to them.

Still, the humble threads that cushion his existence 

speak louder than the ride, but no louder than his voice.

The language to his name.

The gallantry behind the ego. 

The reservation when this prince looks down.

Would he have this unwritten and unraveled?

It will be. If he goes first.