A lean frame. It cuts into every space he inhabits, yet somehow takes up almost no room. His shoulders, they slope away from his neck, his ears, ending in sharp edges that become the long lines of his arms. Brown, the lovely brown of nutmeg when it’s been grated – light, dusty, piquant. His brow, it follows these same lines. 

Hair pulled back to reveal his hairline, rising above his eyebrows with the distance of his palm’s width. A few locks rebel, but it’s not the messy rebelliousness of grunge rock bands or the insistent pull of a heart as it threatens to erupt – it is with the determination of the idealist within that these strands free themselves, curling and softening his face. 

His eyebrows, perhaps his most active feature, are drawn to each other often, pulled magnetically by the force of his thoughts, his emotions, which center themselves between these malleable tresses.

There, further from his hairline than most, lie his eyes. They rest in pockets, hooded from above, padded from below. How small they seem. Perhaps they feel that way because what pulses out from behind them is far more powerful, too strong for the small delicacy of his body.

Cutting his face into two neat halves, his nose is odd in its length. It is a smoothened slope, confidently sculpted from his brow to just above his upper lip where sprouts a sparse mustache, dignified in its upkeep.

Even his lips are sharp. They stand defiant, strong and bold lines that marshal the soft flash of his narrow mouth. His lips, they anchor him firmly to the earth below. These are not lips that dispense fripperies. 

Beneath, a slight indentation which reveals a low-set jaw. Beyond that, his softest curve: his chin, rounded, a true inverse.