He reminds me of a child. A crafting child, with glitter on his hands who jumps up from his work table and gets glitter everywhere. With him, it is the same, but his glitter is invisible. The glitter he has is made of youth and beauty and lies and greatness. He gives some to me when I am with him, so for the time we are together I follow his crazy ideas with ease and run among his bad jokes. He and his friends pass the glitter around; they throw it in the air. They have an endless supply of it. It makes him smell like youth, a vivid and sharp smell that I adore. When the gritty, shiny stuff gets on my hands I get warm and I feel alive with him flowing through me. His thousands of lies glitter with his fake innocence. His ridiculous antics make him glittery. He runs and shouts and screams the glitter onto other people as they laugh at him. I love him when he is glittery because nothing can pin him down. When I steal glances at him in the rare moments he can focus and be still, I see the glitter at the corner of his mouth with his muttering. I see some of it on his fingers as he grips his pencil. In those moments he almost looks normal, but the invisible glitter gathers around him as he becomes restless and comes to see me: his distraction. He is sad sometimes and the glitter falls off, leaving me there to pick it up for him, as he does for me. We toss glitter back and forth.