It’s 2020 and our pupils dilate,
elated at the sight of late night nudes or
the powerful flex of a sext.


You’ll stare at my Instagram page,
sat at your mom’s
desktop computer
blue screen radiating against your retina


and slide in to my DMs while I’ll
deep dive into the internet’s trail of breadcrumbs
and ask whoareyouwhoareyouwhoareyou?


Not that it matters.


This heart is password-protected


and all I’m looking for

is an easy fuck

over text message.


It’s 2020 and we digi-titilate.


We’ll swap numbers, link up, sync up,
swap plug-ins and plug each other.
Grasping at our own throats
gasping down voice notes
lightly choking ourselves, and blackly joking
there’s no room
for Miss Rona.


And later, sat on that 100 thread-count couch
you’ll let your mouse linger
on my waist, my hips, my eyes, my lips


and feel the heavy throb of hot blood
rushing to the tip of your finger,
as you double click


my clit.


It’s 2020,
Click, click.