Brown bottles filled with hops
It seems to be the only physical evidence left
Eleven sit on my bedside table
Ten you finished, one I couldn't, and one unopened
The smell of you is gone from my clothes
Gone from the blanket I hope kept you warm
I still feel your hand on my thigh
Your deep laugh vibrating against my chest
Your hair between my fingers
For now the only thing I can hold between my hands
Is a beer bottle gone stale
But every time I look down at my cold hands
I remember how warm they felt holding you