Dear Owen,

I know you like the farm better. I'm very sorry.

I'm pretty sure I got lost in the concrete jungle of your eyes-- the familiarity in which you would plead with me whenever I'd rather you help me decorate our room (again) instead of play video games.

Have you ever read those Humans of New York stories? They're a lot like our stories. Wandering around the streets in micro fashion, sitting on park benches that are always cold, waiting for the first snow to fall to get that perfect snow angel shot. Your nose crinkles infinitely as poppy seeds fly in the air whenever spring was celebrated in Central Park. Don't get me started on how your hair looks auburn when you stand directly into the light while playing frisbee.

Listening to your voice makes me feel like I'm trapped in a broadway musical I can't escape.