#for:sterek

He thinks of the circus on the nights he cannot sleep, when the thunder is rattling his windows and the wind is howling through the slits of the doors as though they were the whistles of the ghosts. He thinks of the colours that flash with billowing tents and the costumes that the women bend and melt their bodies to and how the hat would sit on the leaders head with an air of pride. He thinks of the pride that consumes him when he thinks of the food that was pure sugar and salt, that made his hands sticky and his stomach swollen. He thinks of the smells. The grass that smelled burnt. The smell of the perfume and the chalk dusting the performer’s hands. The smell of the citrus from the fresh lemonade. He thinks of the daily winks from the bearded lady and the flush that would travel to his chest. He thinks of the rubber that marred his hands and the roar from the lions. He thinks of the teeth that ripped the veins from his calf muscles and the screams that were high pitched and wavering. He knows the screams were his own, and the shame that fills his chest was for that the show didn’t go on.

He didn’t perform again.

He thinks of the circus when he sits by the window and sees the silhouette of a man that followed him home and sits by the rose bushes. He thinks of how the stubble that scratches his face and the hums that vibrate the man’s chest are like a song. A song that cannot go on and he holds the man’s hand when he lies in the fields full of daises and making his nose itch and he remembers the sweat that slid down his back when he was under the beaming lights and the audience roared with excitement.

It’s a dull feeling that numbs his chest.

And he thinks of the circus and the burning of the tents and has a sense of satisfaction.

The man beside him hums, a burn dug into his neck.

You stare at his hair and marvel at the colour

it reminds you of the floor that is tarnished

and destroyed with the prints of your family.

You look at his eyes and glance away

for your eyes cannot stand the strength and acceptance that shine back,

like hope,

and you try not to grasp at it,

but you fail.

You think of Laura and how she would of loved him,

she would have laugh while you danced around him

with stumbling feet and the sun burning your neck.

You think she would have liked his laugh

how it bursts from his body like it cannot contain it’s joy

and you smile to yourself but he know anyway

for he would grin sideways at you and you stare at his eyelashes

and he would wrinkle his nose, like an inside joke.

You sometimes cannot help yourself and will ghost your fingers lightly against his skin

and the softness astounds you

for he’s young and breakable

and you want you curl your hands around his neck and feel the blood pumping in his veins

and be reminded he’s alive.

You look at him like you’re stargazing and he’s the universe open before you

and then he will shout at you, pulling you over

and you don’t stop yourself from