You did always believe that you were special.

I remember one night you lay awake, staring wide-eyed up at the starry sky, reaching toward it with an outstretched hand. I watched as your lips moved, capturing each bright object and putting it into the little box you crafted out of sticks and paper. You then sealed up the box forever.

Always talking, never ceasing to think, you'd run open-armed into the sun's rays, taking each butterfly and squirrel and stashing them away somewhere deep inside your pockets, thinking you could tame them.

Unbeknownst to you, they climbed out when you weren't looking. And your treasured box that you kept the names of the stars in, it opened up while you were sleeping. I still remember how they shot back up towards the sky and stayed there, affixed, as if they'd never even moved.

You always told me that I was yours and nobody else's, but I found a freedom in running away from you. When the butterfly and the squirrel snuck out, I snuck too. When the stars were released, so was I. You still seem to think I am with you, but I am long gone, a distant memory bounding, leaping, running through the wilderness to find my home among so many others.

I pray you find your way home soon.