those books you've read in your youth, like holidays at home continue to remind you of who you were and who you are
some pages bent, the spines creased and worn all signs of being adored and those words somehow meant more to you than who they were written for
those blankets in your bed so tattered and sad they've seen enough sleepless nights both good and bad to pen a short story use your words for a few love songs well ain't it about time you've moved on
those books that you've read you will read again after enough time passes you'll remember some names but not how they end after enough time passes and your heart will break all over again after enough time passes and so on and so forth