Starved

Petals and bullets

whipped icing of Harp 

pretending to know the works by heart

club sandwich of him her and it

Love and longing shredded to bits

Some like their sandwiches open 

A few cut them through 

Others dip them in mayoexpect drab

In hunger they searched 

Found frantic tadka in bags 

Swords on plates which were

Found and never lost 

By night there was air in the whiffs

Of fried meat flung across the cliffs

Famished hawks jumping over the waste

Urge in wings lust in taste

He and she holding on to it's now

Dancing their way to the final bow

Three shots one hit 

Nothing crashed 

Two missed bullets

Rolling down the slope 

Landing in plates 

Of Duds with hope 

Yes love makes noise 

No it isn't immune to death 

By dawn we will be swollen and raw 

Cooking the imagine on mellow Simmer and stir with our paw

We will cuss, shudder while pounding the grain

Aborting the outstation 

Off the kissing train 

- Prajakta Sathe.