I could not tell you how acutely your jawline

              angles with your neck, nor where (when

          not arching in pleasure) your collarbone is set.

        I could not tell, though you have few

      moles, if one spotted there. I could not tell

     you if the cerulean of your carotid bobbed like flotsam

    up against your skin – what tones

   shadows played on its underbelly.

  But I can tell you its pulse, bassy, by the press

 of my ear. I know its proud initial,

              embossed in reach of mine.

             I can course the crook of your neck

            as if moulded for cheeks. I can tell how

            cool or hot you’re feeling by the frisson

                              on each follicle like condensation.

 I bet I could tell you were unimpressed

 or anxious based on a noted absence

 of Tobacco Vanille in your sillage as you undress.

  Those volatile oils leave wet pepper

   on my lips for when I lick them next –

      So it’s sweet when you’re sour.

             I’ve only known your neck at night.

                    Still,       I can tell what it is like

                              having charted it, face-to-face,

                                         by feel alone; having never quite

                                                                                 seen it.