She makes a special masala dosa
Or so she says, special in serendipity.
Like many whims that go unheeded
I left this one to my tongue’s delight;
Each time with disparate flavor.

Until one day she confessed
That she does not posses
The Recipe for masala,
But only half the recipe,
The other half, singed by lightning
That shut the TV and host.

A dish made from a half-recipe
But made whole by imagination.
Something I knew all along
But brushed it under the
Carpet of love all these years.

Best are secrets
That can not be revealed,
But simply embraced.