The bottle of beer in one hand
And the traces of your fingers in the other,
She remembered with every sip
What it was like to have your nose smelling the daisies on her shoulder,
Smiling at every inhale,
Caressing her arm with your tender hair.

Yes, these little details mattered to her,
And yes, they defined her weakness.

But now that you're not here,
She was back to those empty cold nights,
Lost between the streets' dimmed lights,
Having nothing else
But the bottle of beer in one hand.