It can be between the curves of your hands

Destiny — qadar, they say.
It can be between the curves of your hands,
fit there like it was made for you,
and still, not yours.

It mocks.
It waits between your teeth,
a breath away from being named,
but your tongue turns to stone.
You swallow silence.
Because some things?
They come to the edge —
of hands, of lips, of life —
and rot there.

No one tells you that.
No one warns you
that what’s in your grasp
can still betray you.
That proximity means nothing
to fate.

You could beg,
bleed,
break,
and it still won’t bend.
Because qadar doesn’t care how much you ache for it —
if it was never written for you,
you could drown with it in your hands
and still die empty.

Destiny — qadar, they say. It can be between the two curves of your hands, and still not yours.

— Sadia Hakim // Letters Unsent

In my dreams, I come home to you