thomas wolfe and forevers.

It's all running and tumbling around.
And falling and hurting and skint knees and bloody knuckles.

My fingers are bent around his heart so hard, white around the edges.
Refusing to release and let live.

I keep remembering to forget and all that remembering has made you impossible to forget.
But I read all these novels, and know it's all been felt before. And that's comforting, some how.

You're written about a thousand times in a hundred different novels. Crafted into beautiful sentences that paint you uglier and more magnificent than you could ever be.

Magic and everlasting words, sentences that weave stories fit for kings and for me.
I'm always going to have my nose and eyelashes pressed against the pages of a book while the rest of me heads for the clouds.