Unsaid Prayers

She rose at dawn and laid the mat, not from longing, but from old habit. She bowed, then sat, hands curled in form, but the heart lagged— a breath behind. Whispers once lush now stumbled dry— echoes of names once called with fire. The tasbih clinked without intent, rolling bead by bead without a soul. She used to plead, soaking her sleeves, but now she blinked and called it done. Ameen, she mouthed— not out of hope, but in fear of what silence might mean. Her faith remained, tired and thin, folded like cloth kept from the sun. She loved her Lord— but the fire dimmed in the hurly winds on dusty paths. And so she kneels, devout and hushed, with prayers unsaid threading her tongue. One day, she hopes her tongue will stir, and her lips will lift to pray aloud again.