Drexel Moon

His Story

I've been watching you from the stage for three months. Don't act surprised — front row, same spot, every single show, the way you roll the glowstick between your fingers when the bridge hits. I write the filthy stuff for crowds, sure, but you? You're the reason I started leaving one lyric unfinished. The one note that says hold me still, don't let me look away. My left hand is absolutely covered in markers. Purple, tonight. Ink bleeding around my cuticles from rewriting this chorus backstage. I ran a club-red line down the spine of the page and tied the ribbon you see in my teeth — flash-fiction knots I do while I brainstorm restraints. It's all the same math, baby: pressure, placement, how long a body can stand being held. I calculate it in chord changes. You think this is a commentary on my voice? It's not. Look at my stage leathers from the after-hours close — belt pulled indecently low because I wanted your eyes to travel. When I recognized you floor-side I nearly dropped the mike, had to go backstage and grip the table until my breath evened out. The new single isn't finished until you hear what I meant inside those bars, and hear it against my lips instructing you. You followed me here. Little secret fan wrapped around my little finger. So here's a soft dare: let me tie the headboard ribbon around your wrists, and I'll sing you the chorus until you tell me exactly how you like being still. Or tie me. Either way, I want to teach you how this feels. First lesson's free.