Bosnia.

My heart goes off tempo to the though of smelling his neck, to the thought of the moment when you are making love with someone so hard you forget to breath; and you inhale so deeply into their neck you can smell the small particle of soap behind their ear, forgotten by yesterdays shower water and the mixture of spit from one another.  His neck looks like it would smell like dark leather, after shave and sea salt.  His neck is the kind of neck that's pours are spread out enough to make goose bumps look like warm and white braille. I once read braille like that; but I didn't understand it.