I left. I went away, right in the heat of the moment. But isn't that the life I've chosen, always leaving before I begin.

This is important. No matter what I say here, I wouldn't have stayed and I won't stay now.

I heard upon my return you had found someone and she does look beautiful with you, her dark hair always pulled back from her intense eyes and pursed lips, never smiling, never frowning, almost in a trance like this world is well below her.
I would have liked to try you out.
When we were talking the other night, those lips, a pale maroon that contrast sharply with your lack of color, were moving to the tune of films and cigarettes, artists and the untimely darkness that consumes them and most likely us one day. You're eyes like the inside of an avocado, showed the opposition of your ego. I wonder would she make the same observation.
I had left just for a short time and you alluded me.

I sat at Lodo's with my knees propped up against the wooden bar, staring into the golden red lampshades. The smoke from my mouth hung there, underneath the warm rays of phosphorus. What if I hadn't left, playing for two weeks in Europe? Would things be different? Probably but only towards their demise.
Every cold-blooded creature needs warmth every now and then, but a snake can scorch if subjected to the sun for too long.

She sat in the bar and read. Read in a bar and drank Mountain Dew. She was a little under halfway through the book, and she lingered on pages trying to concentrate with the noise. A bar on Thursday with half price drink specials is not the place to read and I'm sure she didn't care about the words but more about her perception. But I suppose that's why I keep smoking. I have an idea of myself as the artist, sitting in a seedy apartment building throwing words together while pacing with rum in one hand and a smoke in the other. We’ve talked about this. Mountain Dew just doesn't thrash me into a new world.

I dislike that you talk about her every time I'm around. She has a beautiful voice and can sing your songs. I long to sing them. I'd try if you'd let me but that would probably only make you cringe. I like that you’re talking to me and wouldn’t mind talking about her if only she wasn’t sleeping in your bed or you in hers.
You said before you left, “I hope your day gets better.” I'd cut out my tongue to tell you why it's bad and I'd cut out hers for you to make it better. I know she's lovely but I hate that you might love her. I need to get away. This illusion is driving me mad.