the arcade scene

I am inundated with the sound of gunfire and dance as we enter the stroboscopic battlefield. The cold is dry and artificial and barely sufficient, calling forth a squadron of sweat blobs from beneath my skin. We soon partake in the war (armed with plastic guns, unlimited ammunition) and I am reminded of the ongoing strife I have with myself. You jam my radar and go for the first kill, taking victory with a wicked grin. And as I lose a second battle against you, I realize the inner conflict has died down too.

I have lost myself in you.

you say it is love

You say it is love and I, too, say, ah, this might just be love, after all, for you never vacate my thoughts, you never take a step towards the door, you never open a window to let the breeze in, you never go. And you say it is love, but I sometimes ask if it indeed is love? For what is love without knowing what is touch and what is taste? But you say it is love for I am constantly traversing the highways of your mind, so you say it is love and we say it is love.

i'll keep this short

This is an attempt at being laconic. This is concretizing a formless subject and cramming it into a one-dimensional space inhabited by words unheard of and unread. This is stretching four letters into a paragraph or, perhaps, a sentence running a marathon—ignoring commas, colons, and exclamation marks, punctuations posing as bright red stop signs, smelling of fresh paint and of trouble, warning of the accident waiting at the next intersection.

This is l as I know it, o as I remember it, v as I understand it, and e as I imagine it, sometimes with you, sometimes without.