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