At least Y isn't Z.

Dear Baby,

dear baby, come home baby. I miss you only maybe because you aren't home,

baby.

I search trees in hopes of you. I found some in Dante, Gilgamesh,

my night was cedar and jewels, tobacco smoke and a fool who

bought me breakfast food and seems somewhat cruel

with blonde hair and blue eyes too. I know this means nothing to

you, baby. True words were said, maybe, but not as true as

truer drier

poems you read to me, lately. And then I find you've been

home, baby. And I realize I'm just a toy reflecting

some love stories you've been wanting to play-act,

lately. Like when we play house and make-believe,

stately in sand boxes and cardboard boxes,

under mother's date tree. You ask too much of me.

I am little seeds, dry cranberries, tasteless

until you consume three of me. You're hurting this lady,

baby. I think you want a little girl who seems crazy.

I flat-out refuse to be a bird in that tree, baby. I was that way

across the sea, only months ago, back in January. It almost

killed me. I swore up and down I saw Hades. Solomon's sin

crept into you too, baby. Cause we're torn in two, clearly. And

now it's messier than it can be for this lady. Animal tracks lead to

briar, you see. I need sweet lullabies but I call you

baby?

That doesn't seem false or mixed to me. And I hate how bad I wish

you came home and crept into my bed, baby.