Letters That Fell into Sujood.

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If I told the paper what my heart holds, would it blush beneath the ink? Tremble with each letter written, the same way I kneel in the darkness, unhidden.

Would the lines remember, how my hands shake before I begin to write, as if every letter carries a secret, too sacred to be let out in daylight?

If I wrote a line without invoking Your name but his, would that line be lost in longing or obedience? would my words lose their sacredness if spilled across a white sheet of paper?

I question myself and wonder: Is prayer still a prayer when written as a love note? Is it holy to reveal, or holiness to hide? Or does the act of writing turn them into something the world may misinterpret. And yet, isn't a heart itself a letter forever seeking its Reader?

For each night I bow to You, my Lord, his name, a quite plea between my breaths, Not a demand, neither a claim, but a prayer wrapped in patience.

For I am certain of this: that he is a piece of my qadr, a thread You already wove, before I even learned to pray for it.

Still, I kneel each night, his name within my sight, Not because I question You, but because I find peace in how it feels, in letting go of every fear, and asking You beneath the stillness of moonlight.

Would You bless our path, before the soil beneath our feet hardens, and write this union with the pen of Your mercy so that it blooms in light, not shadows?

Would You guard our hearts from all that corrupts love, clothe it in sincerity and worship, so that it draws us nearer to You, not farther away?

For I do not wish to write his name on paper, but leave it in Your hands, ya Rabb For You are the Author of our story the Turner of the hearts.

You know the spaces I leave between my words, those deep sighs in between, the pauses heavy with yearning, You know all those spots where my tears drop, turning into silence wrapped in prayer.

And maybe that's what love was always meant to be not loud, not claimed, but quiet and serene. With two hearts reaching for You, Ya Rabb, asking You to make peace within, out of this unnamed longing.

For I always remind myself, he is not a possession to clench in my fist, but a blessing to be experienced, a verse I was meant to live through, not one I was meant to fully understand.

Because in every sujood, I find traces of him lingering, the softness his thought taught me: to love in silence, to pray without an end.

For I am not asking You of a miracle, my Lord, but for what has already been preserved, in the book of Decrees, to bloom like a flower, with gentleness to arrive within Your perfect timing.

Write us together in a way that honors what You've decreed, that turns longing into acceptance, and sujood into gratitude.

I fold these words back into silence, the same silence You have taught my instincts to trust. For what I seek is not in my control, but already written in Yours.

Tonight, I will let the ink dry once more, those tears to dry out softly on the paper, a mark that whispers what could have been written, but was kept within the heart, for even the pen knows when to surrender, to the Hands who taught man to write.

The letters will fall once more into sujood to You, carrying my heart between their curves. For You are (Al-Aleem) the Keeper of all words left unspoken, and (As-Sami) the Listener of hearts that bow before they even speak.

So, I leave this prayer in Your hands, Ya Rabb, the ink, the tears, the silence, all of it. for You are Al-Wadud, the Most Loving who softens hearts in waiting, and Al-Mujeeb, the One who responds to every whispered plea.

If I whispered his name to You, my Lord, would the heavens fold themselves to listen? Would the angels who write my deeds, smile at a heart entrusting its desire to its Creator?

And of His signs is that He created for you from yourselves mates that you may find tranquility in them; and He placed between you affection and mercy. Indeed in that are signs for a people who give thought. (Surah Ar-Rum, Verse 21)