You would do well to listen.

Hear her stories and I don't just mean
the smallest details even though you
should commit them to memory,
take note of the electricity in her eyes,
beautiful hues we have no true spectrum for,
the change in her cadence and volume
when she wants your eyes locked with hers,
there is a beautiful unspoken power in that stare.

Hear her because she isn't just telling you
about the day at work or about her past,
the mistakes and love that was made,
the things that scarred or have caused
her to bloom as the most patient flower.

You would do well to trace every petal.

She's handing you the most sacred thing she can
and it has nothing to with the body
she later wills you to explore.

She's giving you the map.

She is giving you her history.

And when she reaches over and lays 
her hand across yours and you revel 
in that spark of first contact,
that meeting of skin to skin
you should commit this to memory,
take note of every goosebump raised,
the softness in her smile so sudden
it's as if you're seeing her for the first time.

You would do well to listen.

When you are in her home later on
and almost terrified in alien territory,
do not tremble too much when
her mere proximity warms the air,
when that first kiss is foreign
and the both of you are tentative,
it's merely a shiver before she blooms.

Her hand will guide you into her room
and even though the darkness surrounds
and you swear that you have been here before
because all desire rings with certain familiar notes,
this is the precipice of beautiful mystery.

And after your lips and tongues have 
sought and tangled with one another,
and your hands roam and clothes flutter away
soundlessly like watching autumn leaves from afar,
she will guide you deep inside and you need no lights,
you only need to taste the throb in her neckline,
that curve where a woman's mystique 
ever so gently ripples beneath the skin,
you only need to take note of hips rocking,
of possessive velvety depths clutching.

Hear her every breath because even though
this is a language with no defined tongue,
the body can be a patient cipher,
take note of her flesh gripping yours,
willing the most natural explosion,
take note of what has been given,
how a flutter can make the world tremble,
it holds unspeakable power inside of her. 

And when her head is upon your chest after,
a reckless storm begins to calm,
and you can catch traces of whispers,
sweet nothings that really mean everything
with your arms wrapped around her naked frame.

She is giving you her history.

She is trying to tell you something.

You would do well to listen.