Welcome to oiling your body.

And perfuming your neck.

To tuberose, nestled in your elbow.

And jasmine in bed at midnight.

Welcome to cold showers after hot days.

To hot baths before the feast.

To milk pouring into water.

To scent that moves ships.

Welcome to the first sharp inhale.

To steam that curls between thighs.

To leaving the door open.

To falling deeper and deeper inside.

Welcome to cleansing the spirit, as well as the sweat.

To steam that opens more than skin.

To salt, tar, roses, and moss.

To the clarity of the storm rain.

Welcome to finally reaching the edge of the forest.

To taking the long way around.

To the feel of wet dew between your toes.

And time that can always be found.

Welcome to morning light dancing on damp shoulders.

To night-time silks stretched across hips.

To history that prints on the body.

Skin that remembers.

And musk that lingers still.

Welcome to mouths that hover expectantly.

To stories that unfold through scent.

To being both the question and the answer.

The one they wait for.

And the one who prepares.

Welcome to softness without strategy.

To fig-sweet air and sun-warmed sheets.

To covetousness, wantonness, and languor.

To the wetness of green crushed stems.

Welcome to bathing like you mean it

To perfumed water.

Wet collarbones.

To being unreadable.

And undeniable.

Welcome to 39BC.