Okay, listen. I know I talk a lot. I ramble, I monologue — hell, I once spent twenty-five minutes explaining the plot of Conan the Barbarian to a dude who was just trying to buy a dimebag. But if there’s one thing I could talk about forever without getting bored? It’s you.

Yeah. You.

You ever see someone walk into a room and it’s like — boom — the whole fucking atmosphere changes? Like, suddenly you realize everyone else has been just existing, but she walks in and she’s living. And I don’t mean that corny crap like “she lights up the room.” No, I mean you burn it down and builds a runway from the ashes, heels clicking, skirt swaying, eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man.

You’re… I don’t know what to call it. A fashionista? That word feels too small. Like calling Dio just a “guitarist.” It’s not wrong, but it’s criminally underselling it.

You’ve got these racks, and drawers, and hangers full of colors and fabrics I can’t even pronounce. Half the time I swear you’re speaking in tongues when you’re dressing.

“The silhouette’s not right. This needs a cinch here, or maybe a boot with a higher shaft.”

I just sit on the bed like a lost goblin watching a goddess in her temple.

“That looks amazing.” “It’s just a robe, Eddie.” “Yeah, but you’re wearing it, so…”

You always smirk like you’re trying not to laugh, like you know I’m full of shit, but you like the way it sounds.

And here’s the thing: you never dress for anyone but yourself. That’s what gets me the most. It’s not for attention, or approval, or even the god-tier compliments you deserve. It’s an art. Like the way I feel when I’m playing guitar — fingers blistered, eyes closed, whole body buzzing — that’s you when you pull up thigh-high boots and shrug into some dangerous-looking leather jacket like it was made to hug you and only you.

I remember one time, you wore this silk dress — blood red, open back, hugging every damn curve like it had a death grip — and I swear, my jaw made a break for the floor.

“You’re staring,” you said, all coy-like, tilting your head. “I’m praying,” I replied. “To whatever gods let me live long enough to see this moment.”

You laughed. Laughed. Like you didn’t just commit arson with a single look.

I used to think I had this image. Metalhead. Dungeon Master. Freak. But next to you? I’m just Eddie. Just a guy with a van full of amps and a heart too damn full of you. And you know what? That’s more than enough.

Because you don’t just turn heads. You turn me inside out. Every. Damn. Day.