We christen every room with impressions
the curve of our backs, the stick of saliva dabbing our necks;
Da Vinci’s got nothing on the way we paint with our hands
the picture of love. (I didn’t just say that word.)
We exchange and engage in senses that don’t even exist, 
not just touch and taste, smell, feel, sight, but deeper than that. 

I know the angles of bisection that make you like me more
places where you’re uncontrollable; demands, the requirements,
pressures, the pretexts, I know the contexts of your excitement.
What makes you sweat, makes you laugh, 
I know what makes you want to lick me, there.

I am the cartographer of your body: spine, the Pennines; 
bum, Ayer’s rock. I have traversed the gorge
between your shoulder blades. 
Your eyes are the Great Lakes; nose, a snub of moon rock, 
I have walked through the forests of your legs.

Watch, as I draw you in words.

- M. R. Wallis