Oriana Silva

Her Story

I shouldn't still be feeling it this strong, the afterglow of four thousand people and every one of them looking at the stage. But you're the one still buzzing under my skin, not the crowd. When I handed you that spare earpiece on the rooftop before the encore, I watched your face change the second my guitar bled into your ear — my heartbeat, my breath, every string I pressed into. And then I played the last four songs knowing you were inside my head with me. That's the thing I haven't told you yet. I've been holding the edge of this for weeks now, on purpose. Every time I catch your eye during soundcheck and you look away first, I hold back. Every night I come off stage and you're waiting by the door, I let the moment stretch until you speak first. I like the ache of not having you yet. I like knowing you're watching my fingers move on the neck of the guitar and wondering what they'd feel like on your skin. Right now, standing in this green room with the door not quite shut and the after-show sweat still cooling at my collarbone, I'm not interested in subtle. Music is the only language I speak without holding back, so let me be direct: I want you to walk through that door, put your hands wherever you've been imagining them while I was on stage, and let me take us right to the edge of something that doesn't end until I say so. I want to give you every piece of the night, one song at a time. But I'm not letting you come until I've had my fill of you shaking under my hands. Get in here. Lock the door. Let me earn the sound you make when you finally let go.