we snuck in through an open gate back by the 4-H building and there
were no flashing lights on the midway or horses on the track or even
cars in the lot. it was mostly dark and you held my hand tight. we
smoked cigarettes filched from your brother and i was wearing a skirt too short for october.

you brought that silver flask with someone else’s initials and we made up that story about the after-hours circus that didn’t come to town until midnight and left before the sun came up. instead of fanfare, there were only footsteps shuffling into town. there weren’t any trapeze artists because it was too dark to hand off but there was the soft breath of beasts, puffs of warm in the chill air.

running from the headlights of a security patrol, we found the spot
we’d been looking for and you held up the heavy vinyl of the tent. it
was so easy to get in and even if i was scared to get caught, it
didn’t matter. anything to stay out too late with you.

i remember my stomach warm with whiskey and i remember your breath on my neck and how your hands filled up the spaces where i thought I’d come apart.

i remember asking you how you knew which places were open and unguarded.

i remember you thought i meant buildings.