Bliss was sitting close on the cerulean carpeted floors between colorful bookshelves at the library. As she skimmed and scanned for artistic advice and techniques, I was intrigued by the history and works of Michelangelo. We exchanged alluring glances and subtle smiles between the silent absorption of information. I carried her books for her from the checkout counter to her car.
Life was a fairy tale, a fantasy, a novel in the romance section.

Contentment was cuddled next to her on a mattress with one hand wrapped around my torso and the other gently playing with my hair. She told me not to let her forget that her library books were due soon. She excitedly exclaimed that we'd have to go back and search for more.  
Life was the occasional poem she allowed me to read and the words that spilled from her mouth in sweet songs.

Angst was asking her to come to the library with me to search for a good book because even in forced silence I enjoyed her company. I was nervous that her response of "maybe one day" was a premeditated broken promise and that her feelings had faded like the inspiration for my old stories that have been tucked away for years in the attic.
Life was a mystery novel with cliffhangers and hidden clues.

I traced patterns on her shoulder with my fingertips and studied her face as she stared silently at the ceiling for hours.
Finally, with a somber voice and blank expression, she spoke to me.

"my library books are overdue."

I'm beginning to think that her abandonment is as well.