Separation anxiety

When I look at my book shelf, all I see is: SEPARATION ANXIETY. The missing titles among the row of books is that obvious I could actually see those two words.

It does feel good to share shove my books into my friends hands. For them to read it and like it is another thing to boost my bibliophilic ego.

But I do miss my books after a while and it worries me that they might never come back. I fervently hope not. That would break me.

My books are important to me. They each carry a piece of me - a memory, a place, a time, a person. They've been with me through a certain point in my life and I clung to them for my dear life.

Maybe one day I could let them go, set them free. Pieces of me in the hundred paperbacks, millions of words, out there in the universe.

Now they're selfishly mine. Living pieces of me scattered within a 300 mile-radius, maybe?