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, 
                                my hunger 

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

you mutter 
                   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 
to bend/stretch 
to fit 
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

this dance
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

your face  

glowing under the sweat                              the wet stubble

that smile

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 |
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.

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