Abracadbra

He walked in an opera of corduroy. The sweet peppermint of menthol still burning his lips. A tiger. His stripes stitched together from a mosaic of used condoms. A hero. His cape chiseled from the dents in his bed. Where he had slept every night for as long as anyone should be able to recall. Where he'd been woken up every morning for so many years. The sun like a shovel exhuming his corpse.

There was sweat on the window. The foul cologne of summer brewing between weighted breaths. His thoughts wore high heels. Clicking vainly with each step. Making obscenely long shadows. Scalding out an aria from the bowels of his depression.

There were atoms to split. And mates to check. There were months to endure of skin too tight and sorting through the people he thought would fit.

There were colors to crawl through. Steep tunnels of doubt. There were sketches to trace. Subtle treasure maps.

And so much digging.

So much dirt between her and him.

Each moment a magic act. A profound illusion of happiness.