Boredom hits like a snowflake on a hot tin roof and all I can think about are your moans against the darkness and my own name being whispered into my ear. Itís all so tedious. That eternal in-and-out urge that grips us all, only to disappear, satiated, into the shadows again. I lie here in the heat - these humid conditions warping my mind - and endure you, endure your endless love. Canít you see? Canít you taste the passionless embrace every time you open another beer? I can.

We were once close, but lurk in the shadows - the light now burns like it never did. You pester and annoy, breaking the bonds that held us in the first place. Over the top, unwilling, dragging me into the pits of despair even while trapped in the depths of physical pleasure. Robotic actions force me into painful admissions of love, each one more false than the last: painful admissions to myself that itís no fun anymore, not like it used to be.

We struggle against the sweaty sheets, desperate in our attempts to finalise things. Twisted together like lies to a lover, we lied to each other. Lied deeply, truly, madly. There was no love in that bed. Animal instinct took control as we hid behind false smiles and automated caresses, belied only by unfeeling eyes. Dearest enemy, closest kept. I canít erase the memory of what we once had, what we once thought we had. Loose talk and random strangers filtering through any relationship render it brown, like the filthy neoprene of your wetsuit. Deceit and quiet attack from an unguarded rear compiling like poorly written code with inverse kinematics - fifty percent buzzwords and the rest "hello world" boils down to no more than downsized love. You: my downfall - taking me dragging, clawing into insincerities and sneers. Grinding teeth and betrayal combined with passionate love results in blinding despair.

Bridges burnt gladly still leave bitter residue - the future holds what we call resent. Draped stylistically like Portuguese children we chase and tangle again - over into future lives, past lovers, anything but the present. Overcoming nausea and non sequitur prose opens doors to the violation of the myth of causality like a mouthful of pleasurable sensation. Burning like we once were, hysterical like the chaos around us. All that we had - and all that we lost to the flames of no more than lust and bitter love - love of self, love of the forbidden - love of anyone but each other. All the places and the names razed to the ground - up in smoke at the merest mention of the truth we both hold inside.

I wish I could just Xerox the mystery - the magic of Greek tragedy - love left by even the audience. Deep and meaningful artistic endeavour. Lies and false pretences lurking behind utter distain, makes you look so clever, so very bright. The community, like me, hangs on parallel dimensions of your pleasure, a million shades of brown. Illness is no obstruction - green, neoprene-skinned you submerge below the norms of identity and fashions. Ridiculous costumes a walking absurdity - worn daily by unsuspecting customers - victims of their own vanity.

Deviations from the set path - dedicated to the jet set - bring someone elseís verse from your unsuspecting mouth. Once was a typhoon, undefeated, endured by those that must and destroying everything in its path, you continue to ravage me, even as you ravage your own psyche. Foot-in-the-door-slash-mouth carried on to particular ego inflating sky touching skills. The sky was the limit, wasnít it? Ladies of the night would call all hours of the day. Every day. All day. And me? Left to have the night to myself, hiding like a beast, emerging from my cave to be fed, and hating every minute of it. Sharing this husk of a lover, a lover others lusted after, knowing full well that love was a full impossibility. They pitied me. The pitied me for having what they so desired. For I had it all. And all, sometimes, is too much.

My IQ falls every moment we continue, as I groan out of sheer boredom. Uninterrupted monologues continue internally as we both miss the point of it all. Making up endless pithy dialogue as a defence against feeling anything real works for only so long. I canít figure it out - the mountain of your mind rears up against me as I tackle the complexities of what we once were, are now, and what we might never get to be. Understanding drops to all time lows like emotions following education.

Thereís no place to go now. This is the modern world. As good as it gets. Here in the heart of the sun, our memory melts. We never forget, pain swells to fit the size of the vessel. Shouldíve been a beautiful thing. Shouldíve been a bold move into unexplored territory. A luxurious trance feeds insatiable appetites for everything - everything beyond what couldíve been, shouldíve been expected. Promises of pleasure mesmerising us like snakes eyes in the desert heat. Like the heat radiating from the tin roof, like the heat radiating from our sticky bodies, it makes me sick, sick from deep within. I wonder, desperately, as I consider what happened here, what left us with this Hiroshima-landscape of a relationship, as I cut it open like so many anatomy textbooks, to show intimate detail of the standard man and carnal knowledge of every woman: did you ever have the slightest intention to stay?