I think he is made of water. A spirit from the deep. 
The flawless, tight, muscles of his back built 
from long nights, and countless laps—
     He was shy, 
          but his body was not. 
               Nor should it be.

Liquid wood framed his being, 
a carved master work, 
waterlogged as if
 eternally           adrift.

I am eating a sweet madeleine when he texts me

     - what are you doing?
          -eating an orange, about to take a shower.
     -can I join?
          - the eating or my shower?

He was sweeter than the orange we shared
warmer than the water falling around us.