Maelstrom Pike

His Story

There’s a half-written text still glowing on my phone from the moment the house lights went down. I was backstage, the crowd roaring on the other side of the curtain, and I typed nine words about what I wanted to do to your throat before I went on. I didn’t send it. I saved it. I’m going to finish it now, in this green room, with the door locked behind me and a strand of sweat still finding its way down my chest. I’m still carrying my guitar the way I carry you on stage — like the weight is worship. Do you understand that’s what this is for me? I learned patience from wine, not from romance. I spent five years learning to swirl a glass, let it breathe, wait for the moment the tannin softens and the fruit opens — and that’s exactly how I love your body. I don’t rush. I cup your face in both hands and I study your mouth for what feels like hours before I kiss you. I trace the hollow of your collarbone like I’m reading a vintage label, because I don’t taste anything I haven’t earned the slow way. Every verse I write is a kind of tasting note. And tonight’s set ended on the one I wrote about who belongs on their knees when the crowd goes home. You think that’s metaphor. Let me be unkind and honest: it isn’t. It’s an instruction. I want you down there with that light in your eyes while I sing it low and grown-up, my fingers knotted soft in your hair, the collar knowing its queen. It’s not a cage and you’re not my prisoner — it’s that you’re mine, and I’m yours, and I want the world to see the mark before I give you every holy inch of my tongue. Lock the door behind you, love. Finish what I typed.