And if I had to make just one thing clear -

I never left you for a banjo; I only just turned around for a poodle and a corvette.

So yes, you just shut up.
Because yes, I turned around. I'm not trying to deny it. I'll say it as many times as you'll like, now, if that's what you need.

But that is all I did - I only turned around.

So I turned around, found myself trapped in a flight of stairs, stained with ink; so I hesitated for just one minute too many, felt uncertain, had an I-want-it-all fit - what difference does it makes, really?

I'd turned around before. You were well aware of that; you knew how it had gone down.

Everyone turns around sometime, everyone but you. No, you don't turn around - you walk away; you walk away because you're empty, so empty you can't tell a corvette from a banjo, a poodle from a death threat or a frog from a prince. Damn it, you can't even tell yourself from the crowd.

So you stop blaming my head for taking a look sideways: I couldn't have been standing there when you glanced to your right because you'd left me miles behind.

And I should've let you go long before, I shouldn't have begged, I shouldn't have tried, I should've kicked you away; what you're throwing at me now was pure bullshit at the time, and if you look carefully, you'll see at least I was honest enough not to pretend I wasn't aware of the situation.

So screw you. I was perfectly entitled to watch the damn corvette pass by.
And you know what, down the line, if just that glance made you feel even the eighth of the pain you've caused me, then good for you.

If you asked, you could find I'm willing to apologize for a lot of things, but my having turned around is not one of them.

Good night.