I.
I love you and I miss you.
It's been 21 hours and it feels like 21 days.
The world stands still when you make dinner.
You are my baby.
Not my Baby Pumpkin – that's Eli – but my Babycakes – that's you.
But not the baby that comes out of my vaginal canal.
That's a different baby all together.
Salsa.
II.
I'm surprised at how much we get along.
At first, awkward.
At second, still awkward.
At third, giggly.
At fourth, completely unguarded.
I love it.
I yearn for it.
I anticipate it.
I'm unafraid.
I'll show you my stretch marks.
I'll show you the hair I should have plucked two weeks ago.
III.
I don't miss you at all.
Once every couple of weeks someone asks about you,
I barely even remember.
I thought the world revolved around you.
Only you revolve around you.
It feels good to forget.
And remember how amazing my life really is.
Not riddled with depression, self-doubt and panic attacks that didn't originate in my brain.
I'm at peace now with only a grey cloud once in a moon phase.
I can handle that.
I can't handle you.
IV.
I'm shocked at how much you blame.
You really shouldn't.
You're to blame.
I'm not 100% innocent.
But the jury would definitely rule in my favor.
Blamer.
That's just lazy.
Make it better.
Make it work.
Make it warm.
Make it fuzzy.
Epilogue.
I'm the best lay you'll ever have.
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