You Don’t Remember the good times?

Cheeks, red hot

the imprint of your hand.

Love, I thought

unique for me, an iron brand.

To this day I cannot stand

the smell of pesto sauce.

Tell me I’m your only, so grand.

Now I see the lines you’ll cross.

I can’t believe you’d like to gloss

right over all the pain.

You made me little more than dross

but it’s your talent, to feign.

So no, I don’t remember the ‘Good Times’,

only red lights, blaring sirens, stop signs.