The ‘F’ word floods the floor of my lips in disgust,
everything we built was on sand,
whether castles or huts,
whether with bricks, blocks, wattle or daub,
It crashed beneath the strength of one hand,
Or two, upon your breasts,
your bosom beneath another pressed,
squeezing out my memories from your mind,
like oil from its parent nut that’ll never return.
Deceit, like lipsticks upon your lips,
that won’t rub off e’en when French I kiss,
your eyes wide open, your mind with his.
Copyright © Dominic Amezimi | Year Posted 2017