Love me, like you loved before
time became a chain, rust and
raspberries in a field of dreams
in a neighbourhood of old woes,
strained eyeshadow and lipgloss
and the bottles
stashed under broken benches
and the sweet smoke lingered
between their grey towers.

Love me like you loved them;
I am different
-ly shaped, but love is love
and love is
(they say)
a meaning, purpose, and answer
to questions I’ve yet to ask.

Love me,
and all will be alright
(they say)
in days and nights of passions
bought with credit
card, cards, stacks of borrowed
love
dropped in a desolate field
— of dreams.