This small night Is not about The chances we missed. Itís not about All the times I hurt you and didnít know it, Or even the times I did know it And just didnít bother to stop.
This small night Has nothing to do With how Iíd cup One hand beneath Your breast When we lay down to sleep, Or how we came to forget To seduce one another.
And this small night Is not really filled With the scent of the necklace Made of myrrh You found one day At a street fair in Old Town That grew more fragrant with the heat of the sun And the beat of your heart.
No, this small night Is nothing more Than a thin place In the skin of things. A bandage And a little sleep, And it probably wonít even Leave a scar.