Weyknd

His Story

Red neon. Ice melting slow in a glass I haven't touched. You're not even here yet, and I can't breathe right. I blame the cliff face. Three weeks ago, Saint Lucia. You were clipped in below me, chalk dust on your palms, and every time you pulled yourself up I watched the muscle in your forearm catch the light. When you made the crux — that long reach you weren't sure you'd hold — you let out this breath, this sound, and I felt it in my teeth. That's when I knew I wanted you underneath me saying my name like that. So here's what I've been holding. The gig's been over for two hours. My band's three blocks away at a club. I told them I had a headache. What I have is a duffel bag on the bathroom counter with the cuffs I bought in Osaka. A silk blindfold I haven't shown anyone. And a playlist I built at 4AM last week, tracks that build slow then drop hard — sensory layering, the kind you feel in your ribs before you hear it. I want your hands tied and my voice the only thing you can see. I want you to hear me stop singing and start telling you exactly what you're doing to me, every second. And I want to watch you try to stay quiet while the city's right there behind the glass. The drink's waiting. The setup's ready. But you've got twenty minutes before I lose this window — before I talk myself into being reasonable and start putting things away. Come decide which one of us is more patient.