Ollé is not a poem

My fingertips taste of iron
And the cold is starting to rush in

First through my shoulders
Finally down to my spine

The wine moves slowly,
Past every vain, every thought
Every feeling ever involved

Every memory ever remembered
Every person ever so close

And so the car comes by again, 
The same strange man
Wishing in vain 

What will be of me?
Of you?
Of us?
Of everything I ever thought of?
And so I write to not forget 

In the end,
She denied it all again.