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 are creased and worn: all signs of being adored. And those words, and how it 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 [pad?] a short story (use your words) or a few love songs.

Or ain't it about time you've moved on?

Those books that you've read, that you'll 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.