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On the 13th, the box full of books arrived. I thought I died and went to heaven. Or that I was at the height of my delirium that all of the things I want are suddenly coming true just because I dream it. But it was not an apparition. All the books that I bought last year have finally arrived at my doorstep and oh, I was so excited! Afterwards all I wanted to lie down with them, so I did. I have been obsessively cataloging my books for awhile now, and last year I decided to reacquire titles that I have lost to a previous relationship.

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It was quite a task, since A. and I were both voracious readers. I discovered books gone missing. I can not remember now if I gave them away because I loved him, or because I loved the books so much that I have made them a constant presence in his life: I wanted him to read them and see pieces of my self tucked in between the pages, written on the margins. We went through so many books while we were in love. Not only mine, but his, too, and sometimes, books that we discovered together.

When the relationship ended, a lot of these books went with him (along with a lot of my film and music collection, unfortunately). I broke my heart, I left, and I could not bring myself to take any souvenirs. It's one of my few regrets: those books were a huge part of who I am, and to have someone who used to know me well, who I let under my skin, keep them was unsettling.

  • Adam Floyd