Regrets and Cigarettes

Drive-B

Shit, I don't know where my lighter is.

She's sound asleep, the moon shining off her pale face, her black hair tangled in the gray sheets. In her tiny, soft hands lays the only thing that can keep me sane. The wooden lighter.

How she got it? I must have asked her to hold it while I poured glasses upon glasses of her favorite liquor. How I remembered her favorite liquor? She told me on the night you left.

Carefully, I slip my fingers on the palm of her hand. Her lips curl and she gives a small moan. I bite my lip while focusing and finally grab the wooden lighter. She doesn't notice.

The cigarettes still in my back pocket. I feel them on my ass, begging and crawling at my skin to be noticed. Huh, fans act the same way, don't they?

I glide to the suitcase silently. Her panties, shirts, jeans, and bras are scattered throughout the navy blue box. She didn't say anything about it, so I'm guessing she didn't notice the package that was in the bottom of the case. The package arrived the day we left. Even though I told her we were going on tour, she packed enough clothes. I regret not asking someone to get the dogs.

The motel room is fairly empty, nothing but the moon, the alarm clock that reads 4 am, and distant Vegas lighting. She's lying in bed while the case lies on the ground. We'll be here for a week, then I'll be on tour, and she can go home to tend the dog's needs. Then maybe I can fake my death and leave that house where you can never find me. I haven't gotten that far.

Before I exit the room, I whisper, "I'm sorry, Sarah." She grunts but I've already closed the door.

The package name beams in the moonlight. It's not your handwriting, it's a stamp.

Brendon Urie

I know there's a card inside, and although there isn't a return address, I know it's from you. I unlock my station wagon's doors, slide into the driver's seat and open your fucking package. The card has my name scribbled on it, like how you wrote it on the rough drafts of lyrics. My hands are shaking and I feel myself go pale. I somehow manage to open the envelope.

Things went wrong. It was mostly my fault. I present to you, well, you. The Young Veins. A metaphor of how you were always in my system, but newly discovered. Almost every single song is about you, if not all. There are so many things I want to say to you, but here's Jon and I trying to sum most of it up. I hope to see you soon.

Yours,

RR

My blood is boiling. I shove the CD into the player of my station wagon. The first thing that plays is Jon's guitar, a single strum. I glance at the track-list, fire in my eyes. The song is called "Change".

"She was acting pretty, thought she owned the city, someone should've told her, that pretty ain't a job."

I'm quick to realize this one isn't about me. It's about one of his past girlfriends, whether it's Z or Keltie. However, the song is quite catchy. The next song, "Take a Vacation!" isn't about me either, but yet again, it's catchy. During the two songs, I'm able to light a cigarette, take a drag, start the car, and drive on the empty highway. The songs are so happy and good, how could they be about me?

But I speak too fast. I glance again for the next song. "Cape Town". Where it all went downhill.

The first verse was bullshit so you looked like an innocent heterosexual. But the chorus was all us.

"I saw you, I met you, I loved you, I left you in Cape Town."

It's exactly what you did, but you never told me you loved me. You left me, our final show together, in Cape Town. I guess all the things you told me that night, you didn't mean, or at least that's what the song portrays.

What I got from that song was that you loved me, but it was too late, because I didn't know.

The next song, "Maybe I Will, Maybe I Won't" is sung by a familiar voice, but not yours. Jon's. You let Jon sing a whole song? I won't deny, he's good at it.

"Seven days over the sea shells, sunk so many, at least will, you come visit me, finally finding sleep, swim around and dream"

Ocean metaphors. Of course you wrote the song. I can't ever forget Myrtle Beach, and neither can the fans. You made sure of that from that little blog thingamajig of yours.

Ah yes, you made a song about your stupid little band that's all about me. Let me take another drag.

"But if I were to die tonight, would you cry or deny my place in your life, I'm aware that you're scared of my heart, but it's here."

Wait, this is about me, not your Beatles knockoff band. I was never scared of your heart, I was scared of losing you. I ran off with her so I wouldn't hurt you. I thought I could have both but you left me in Cape Town.

"It's the same, go to sleep with our blame, and the shame is enough to separate us"

Fuck. My eyes start to water.

"But we can't help ourselves, we're in love, and it really hurts when it's wrong"

Being bisexual has got to be the second hardest thing I've had to deal with, while the first is losing you. The rest of the lyrics are a blur as I keep inhaling the cigarette and thinking about you. When I hear Jon's voice again, without thinking, I skip the song. It's not about me anyways. It's about some girl, the love of his life.

"Don't wait around for love, you're not what he's thinking of, when he's with the other girl"

It's about Sarah and I. Oh fuck.

"Don't bother waiting up 'cause he, he's not where he's supposed to be."

It's true. It was all fake, for you.

"You, you were right, I was wrong, like I always am, and you always are."

You've got it all mixed up.

"Don't have much to say right now, 'cause I'm trying to figure out, why he's with the other girl. Life is not a fairytale, they will send him straight to jail, where he'll die and go to hell, with the other girl, with the other girl."

Tears slip out of my eye sockets and land on my cheeks. Why did I ever tell you about Sarah? Why did you never tell me that you loved me?

The highway is still empty when I pull the car over. I need a fresh cigarette. I pull one out of my back pocket, light it up, and place it in between my lips. I still fail at burning away the memory of you. I can't stop crying. In fact, the last time I cried was Cape Town.

I ejected the album and put it back in it's case. I had enough suffering for the night.

I ran my fingers over the lighter. The only thing that keeps me sane. I should really scratch out your initials.