by Stephanie Chan
we are lying parallel on two mattresses
ten thousand miles apart.
not so much passion as coincidence
of time zones,
you working from home twice a week,
it occurs to me
that we haven’t actually seen each other
with clothes on before
skype message. 1.23AM.
‘u relaxed in bed right now?’
the way you know how I’ve always hated flirting
through licked lips
I’m this close to saying ‘I know, right?’
tongue-tip, finger, I trace my areola
you show off
how you can suck on both your nipples,
a black tail curls onto your belly your cat
flicking against your side
until you carry her off camera.
You ask me what I want to see
your body a hotel buffet
and I want two helpings of everything.
You move your laptop down.
I imagine myself buried deep within your right thigh roll
You ask me how I would get there
I talk about eating my way through you.
we’ve done this enough times
that my adductors
have learnt the angle
an eyeball through.
I tilt my screen
and you gasp
I know, right?
And I’m not saying this is all I need in life.
but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t kind of close:
your breathing all I hear through my speakers
of right hands and satellites
lungs and love handles
thighs and thighs and thighs
your face, pixelated as real as anyone I’ve sneaked into my bed,
half ecstatic half problematic
half making my back of my mind raise an eyebrow at how much of this pleasure is derived from pleasing someone else & why do I bite my lip to stop myself from apologising for coming first and what does that say me but that’s another poem
if this is the future, maybe I was born in exactly the right era,
you exhale steam on your glasses my glasses
dripping too out of breath to
I’ve never gotten the hang of waving at my computer
glowing under the sweat the wet stubble
that I know won’t leave
until several minutes
after we’ve logged off,
blurry but there.
that smile I needed that.
Stephanie Chan | @stephdogfoot | stephdogfoot.wordpress.com
A former Singapore and UK national poetry slam champion, Stephanie Chan (they/she) is the author of a poetry collection called Roadkill For Beginners (Math Paper Press) and runs a spoken word night called Spoke & Bird. They appreciate small cakes, even smaller animals and write in a vain attempt to capture joy in its various forms.