She used to write poetry, she tells me.

Oh? I ask her, honestly interested in the enigmatic woman who was named after a battle-ship, this woman snuggling against my body, grasping onto my arm - her every movement sending a swarm of heat and emotion through my body.

She tells me it was a crafty art that she never could quite master, an art of precision and beauty. She couldn't quite muster the words to describe it, much like, as she says, the art itself.

The rhythm of each beat, each word, each syllable. It was hard to master, this rhythm. It was an art that couldn't be mastered.

I wondered and wondered at her words, gazing into those deep blue eyes, searching for the words to describe her inconceivable beauty.

I cut her off as she tries to tell me, pressing my lips against her own, darting my tongue inside of the small opening she leaves me with her lips, allowing myself to find her soft tongue and roll my own against hers.

I grasp her cheeks, leaning in, kissing her more deeply. I brush my tongue against hers, and she moves hers against mine, tangling and dancing, writhing and feeling until she pushes lightly on my shoulders, a plea to breathe.

I move my face away as she catches her breath, and suddenly, I can't pull myself away. She wants to breathe, but I want to dance with her. I want to feel the movement of her tongue against mine. I cup her chin and lean in again, and she protests, but then I tell her, "Breathe through your nose," before invading again.

So our tongues dance for the morning, before she can finish her speech on poetics.

The next time, I find her slowly swaying to an old love song in our apartment. I place my bag down, though it seems to have gone unnoticed to her.

She sways her hips to the beat of each sound, allowing her arms to dangle. She turns around slowly, her eyes closed and her golden locks bouncing. I find my heart also pulsating louder and faster with each movement she makes.

I step closer to join her, and she seems surprised by my intrusion, seemingly unaware that I was affectionately watching her the entire time. She smiles, her dimples beaming, as she wraps her arms around my neck, allowing them to rest on my shoulders. I smile back accordingly, and place my hands gently on her hips, pressing myself against her. And so we dance to the beat together, swaying along to the rhythm of the song.

The next time, she is panting wildly into my ear, begging me to give her release. Our lips meet once again, and I let our tongues dance. She moans into my mouth, each moan coinciding with the shifting of my fingers, as I press upwards inside of her. I feel her pulsating tightly on my fingers, her hips moving along to my every move. She wraps her legs around me, and moves along with my lead. Our tongues finish dancing, and I move to bite her bottom lip. She whispers in my ear, Callie, Callie, and it sounds like music to me, each sensuous whisper dancing to trembling of her body.

The next time, she is snuggling up against me, gleefully playing with the black, damp strands of my hair, wet from her sweat. I gaze into those blue eyes again, caressing her cheek, and she finishes her story of the poetics. She tells me that someday she hopes to better the art of measurement.

Placing a gentle kiss on her lips, I tell her she's already mastered the art of rhythm.