I live for her

Chapter 18: Naked Pine Groves

Leroy ♞

I took the long way home. Just so I could revisit the pine grove that's scented with peace and tranquility and voices that whisper, "Keep calm, Leroy".

I slow down my pedaling as the conifer-laden sidewalk meets my eyes. Night time vibes: crickets chirping, insects buzzing about the halo of the lamp posts and the moon seated on a marshmallow-like cloud floating in a deep blue sky.

My train of thought stops at that station again. The one that triggers thoughts of the kiss. It's not my first kiss with her - our first kiss was hilarious... her face said, "Did that... just happen?". To my defense, I'm only thinking about the kiss again because I started to think about the trees. And well, as the pine breeze filled up my lungs my thoughts transcended to paintings of all the tree's systems and then I landed upon thoughts of transpiration. Then, the rest you can guess: I think carbon dioxide and I think her breath against my chest and neck... and then I think her lips, her teeth, her kiss. (You couldn't guess it? Keep it to yourself - but that's one of the downfalls of being a psycho: no one gets you.).

Too much information? Sorry. Let's get back on track, I was trying to restore my dignity: I'm not obsessing over that kiss because it's my first. It was different though. Everything was more real, my soul was detached and my whole skin and body were submerged in floods, gushes and rains of chemicals that felt too good. It was the first time I was so present in a kiss... or that I wanted to just keep kissing and reaching for her soul through her lips. Sounds like vampirism or something - you know, sucking souls outta bitten lips. (Yup, it's definitely gonna be on my CV : "vampire".).

I lift my right hand to feel my bottom lips and gage the damage done. Fatal. Incurable. The dermis stained with the undying desire to feel cold teeth scar them again.

I watch a bat fly towards the yellow bead in the sky and then vanish as it camouflaged into the sky where the blue turned black. A part of me wants to call Emily right now and tiptoe around the topic of hospitals, graves, death and my mum until she tells me what happened when she was fourteen. The other part... it understands. It understands that some people house scars that jab them with disgust when they think or look at it. That they struggle to accept this piece of themselves with ease so even attempting to release the truth: that they house this disease - is a nightmarish thought. A thought that crosses their mind but never crosses their mouth and escapes the confines of their skull. And there's a third part... afraid of what my baby girl has to share... or well... refuses to share. I mean it's probably serious, life can't just be roses every time, I understand that. And relationships are about staying through thick and thin even if it's dark and you fear pressing your skin on one of her thorns. Thinking too much. I'm... thinking too much. I press my hand on my chest: the rise and fall of my rib cage tells me I'm feeling too much and overreacting. I stop walking. I inhale deeply the pine scent that holds a certain coldness that reminds me of minty ice cream. I take it all in, the happy memories my brain associates with mint: smiles, ice cream shops, chocolate bars. I close my eyes tightly to dive deeper into this nostalgic pool in my head and then - I exhale. Listening to the sound of carbon dioxide molecules being forced out of my nostrils.

I'm fragile, fickle, reactive. One of the things I dislike about myself. Look at how much time I've wasted painting up worst case scenarios. She seems to understand that though, I really feel like she does. Because sometimes she doesn't seem surprised by the irrational things I do. Just to run away from life - because my mind is a really good artist. He paints with colors and hues that make me believe his artworks are real and they are premonitions of my future.

I do stupid things sometimes - because of that. That's my overthinking summed up: believing my fears are real when they're just thoughts.

She looks at me like she knows I'm overthinking but tends to keep her face neutral which tells me she doesn't mind this loose bolt in my head. But I'm not saying I think so much that I don't get things done. On good days it's all contained and controllable so I'm able to slash up the canvases with the blade of Logic.

Think less and take everything as it comes... that's how you summon the blade.

I'm trying not to get philosophical... it's just something I needed off my chest: how much I hate myself, sometimes, when I think without a hint of logic. I'll stop.

I ride home, sucking up the astonishing view of the night, and rows of lamp posts, and bustle of restaurants and sound of humanity: people laughing, talking, giggling, greeting - while the tires of the bicycle spin jet-fast down tarred downhills. It all tastes like life.

The downhill levels off to a straight road and the spinning tires slow down. I cycle slowly enough to allow my eyes to scan the buildings. I'm looking for Joe's diner. Need takeaways to accompany a binge of How I met your mother and because dad's not going to be home anytime soon.

Joe's diner, small enough to fit in the small space by the road where it turns to the left and big enough to fit a large man with a large heart - your typical chubby man with good taste buds and cooking skills. It's the last place mum took me to before the tumor thing called for an operation.

Joe smiles, no words were needed, he knew my order and told one of his kitchen minions dressed in white to prepare my greatest edible weakness.

A/N: I don't even have a comment 🙈 (why don't we switch things up: you guys ask me a question.)

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