This small night
Is not about
The chances we missed.
It’s not about
All the times
I hurt you and didn’t know it,
Or even the times I did know it
And just didn’t bother to stop.
This small night
Has nothing to do
With how I’d 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 won’t even
Leave a scar.