Duel; take aim, break; ricochet. 
Was a shot wasted? No, in vain. 

A smile on his face with obsession in his eyes,
Possession in his veins, hatred lied in sight? 

With the striker's gentle kiss, a carrom clash commenced,
Only for the queen! Carrom men tensed. 

Was winning the aim or pocketing the queen? 
The one with the queen meant a win indeed. 

Foul, he growled; to the opponent – scowled. 
"You're mine, I own you," he looked at me and avowed. 

His hand on his chin, prowling the board,
His grin widened, "One shot away, darling; you belong to me." 

Only pocketing was left, I was owned,
Lost the identity — a queen love sold. 

Lick shot in a flick, victory screaming within him,
"Told you, I own you, don't be mean, my love. Again?" 

A decision was made, scores showed update. 
Between the pockets and blocks, my destiny carved this date! 

Hunger deceived or power consumed,
Or was I fluctuating between the two?