The fan creaks softly,
as if it too listens,
to the gentle murmur,
of prayers weaving through
the morning's fragile light.

Breath held, a pause,
in the rhythm of tears,
that never quite fall,
as the voice echoes
in the quiet dawn.

Words float,
like leaves in a stream,
carried by whispers,
seeking solace in
the heart's silent chamber.

Yet in the stillness,
I find a truth unfolding,
that feelings, like prayers,
need not always find
their perfect end.