There was he. His grace was beautiful. I could imagine when he walked in, that I would solely focused on his face, as if he was jaded. Walking barefoot, I saw his toes clutching the carpet gingerly. The body hair was barely visible, but some tufts on his legs and arms. His chest was devoid of hair. His eyes changed color with different lights. Sometimes hazel, sometimes gray, sometimes a shocking azure blue that leaves me trapped, as if I was being studied. His hair was like his eyes, also shifting color between light blond and dark brown. It was most of all a dirty lock, shaggy as the youth once independent, fierce, and wild, and now manifest in a sort of subdued , yet not subdued, a look that says he will play with whoever gives him the time of day. It is  a look that he will have died but Death loved him too much to make him pass before his time. Or perhaps Death has not notice him yet.