Dear Evie,

We're in Houston, Texas. We're doing two shows here then heading out to Chicago, the Windy City as they call it. I haven't been finding much time to write to you lately. But it hasn't been the lack of time that has been keeping me from writing to you. Evie, I love you, and I want you. I need you desperately. But I'm coming up short with words.

I don't know what else to tell you. Finding the proper words has been a big problem, lately. I don't seem to know how to use my words well and instead resort to bursts of anger. I'm so bloody exhausted. My eyes and throat feel like they have sand in them. I love America, you know that. There's no other place like America, like NYC, like San Francisco. Still, it's hard to enjoy it all when a part of me is missing.

x

Paul told me to snap out of it. George and Ringo acted as referees as I shot Paul daggers. Before Paul told me to get my shit together, he found me clutching a piece of paper. The piece of paper was beginning to get crumpled from the pressure I releasing on it. I was trying to write to you Evie, but I wasn't sure what to say without sounding like a scratched record. (Which on it's own, is a phrase I use too often, I know.)

"Why did she break up with you, really?" Paul asked. I thought of all the reasons, and there were too many, so I said nothing. It was easier to pretend I was perfect, and our relationship ending was all on you. "Did she suspect you were cheating?"

"Did you ever hit her?" Why did Paul have to ask such impossible questions? Goodness, he's always been better than me. Why didn't you date him, Evie? You knew Paul first. You should of gotten his telephone number instead of mine. I didn't want to answer his question. I didn't reply, I just stared at Paul, frozen like statue. "Figure it out, John. Get your shit together."

I looked as though I was going to attack Paul. I felt like I was going to attack Paul. George and Ringo both looked up from what they were doing. Ringo pulled me into a corner of the room, near the balcony and handed me a cigarette.

"Say sorry," Ringo told me. I scowled. I wasn't going to apologise to Paul. But Ringo shook his head. He slapped my shoulder. "Tell Evie you're sorry."

So Iv, here it is: I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the time we fought and I slapped you so hard you stared crying. I'm sorry there was nothing to do to take it back and stop you from crying. I'm sorry for the broken flower vases, for the punched walls, I'm sorry for the pointless arguments. I'm sorry I wasn't more supportive of you. I'm sorry I used you not being present, you wanting to have a career and be more than a pretty face as an excuse to be horrible to you.

I realize now, you could have used the same excuse too. Because I wasn't there either. But you never treated me like I treated you.

I admire you, Iv, and I love you.

I know I'm complete arse, I know I don't deserve you, that's clear to me. Oh god, Iv, I know it's asking a lot. But please believe me when I say things will be better this time.

Please be mine, (again)
John