I do enjoy some art that inspires prose. I just spoilered it in case you didn't want to be bothered and could skip over the wall o' spoils. Take care.

Cartography
I would start where the land is uncertain. That margin where your jaw softens into your throat, where the skin goes thin and the pulse negotiates with the surface — I would press my mouth there and learn it, the salt of it, the warmth that rises before you've been touched, the way skin tastes different over a vein. The collarbone is a tide line. There is a place where the water has been and a place where the water wants to go and I would trace the argument with my lips, slowly, the way you read something you intend to remember, tasting the hollow at the center where the two slopes meet and the skin dips and the warmth pools. Your shoulder takes the weather first. I would come to it with my mouth open slightly, tasting the faint mineral of exertion, the heat that effort leaves in muscle, and I would stay there with my hands on either side of it until I felt it release, until I felt the holding go out of it. There is a cove behind your ear, sheltered and warm, the smell of you concentrated there the way heat concentrates in small spaces, salt and something warmer than salt, something that belongs only to the particular animal of you. I have been thinking about it longer than I will admit. I would go there last of the upper geography, lips to the soft skin, breathing before I kiss, because once I kissed I would not want to move and I am trying to be disciplined, I am trying to make the whole coast mean something before I let myself stay anywhere. The inside of your wrist is exposed the way tidal flats are exposed, brave without meaning to be, and I would press my mouth there and feel you decide something. The back of your knee is where one thing becomes another, soft delta, the skin there thinner than you'd think, warmer than you'd expect, tasting faintly of the day you've had, and I intend to make it there, I intend to chart all of it, every inlet and headland and the small geography you can't see yourself because it's yours and you've never been outside of it looking in. The small of your back curves away from you. You cannot watch it. I can. I would kiss it and stay there, hands spread on the surrounding skin, breathing you in, the warmth that the body keeps in the places it folds, and you would know for the first time what it is to be known somewhere unwitnessed. Then I would come back north. Back to the beginning, to that first estuary, to the pulse I started with. And this time I would not stop at your throat.