Most poems about love either celebrate a beginning or mourn an ending. hans's "my prayer" is about the awkward stretch after the ending, when the facts have changed but the heart is still catching up. In eight short lines, the poem sets what the speaker wishes were true against what they are forcing themselves to accept. Along the way, one kind of prayer turns into another.
The first stanza is built around an unusual request. The speaker prays "that we're right for each other", in the present tense, not "that we will become" or "that we might find our way back." That is a prayer for a different truth, a wish that the relationship was right all along, and it asks reality to correct itself. Then comes the tiny line "i really do." It answers a doubt nobody has voiced, perhaps the reader's, perhaps the speaker's own. The stress falls on "really," and the insistence sounds like someone who has had to defend this belief, if only privately. The opening word, "everyday," makes it a habit, not a single desperate plea.
Then the poem drops to one line: "but now,we drifted apart." It is the shortest stanza, and the white space around it does the work of distance. The verb matters. "Drifted" suggests a boat slipping its mooring with nobody rowing, and nobody to blame. The poem contains no quarrel, no betrayal, no villain. Notice too that "we" is still the grammatical subject, so the two people stay together in the sentence even as it announces their separation. The missing space after the comma in "now,we" may be a slip of typing, but it presses the two words together just where the meaning pulls them apart.
The last stanza shows the speaker's struggle most clearly. The tenses move from the habitual present of "i pray" to the past of "drifted" and back to the present of "i try." "Till now" stretches the past into the present, which suggests the acceptance is unfinished. The speaker never says "I accept," only "i try my best to accept." The longest line follows: "that you're just not right for me." It is seven monosyllables in a row, each carrying almost equal weight, so it has to be read slowly, like a hard sentence said one word at a time. The small word "just" tries to shrink the verdict, but the line still needs all that space.
The word "right" returns here, now with "not" in front of it, and the pronouns have changed. "Each other" has narrowed to "me," and the "we" of the first stanza has split into "you" and "me." Because "right" here means fit, not moral correctness, no one is guilty. The poem ends on the afterthought "eventhough it's hard," as if the feeling slipped out after the sentence was supposed to be finished. The last word is blunt, and no comfort follows it.
The form suits this honesty. There is no rhyme and no regular meter, only short, speech-like lines. The lowercase "i" throughout and informal spellings like "everyday" and "eventhough" give the impression of something typed quickly rather than polished, though that is an impression, not a fact about how it was written. Apart from "drifted" and the word "pray," there is almost no imagery. There are no flowers, no rain, nothing to hide behind. The title promises a prayer, yet the poem never says who is being addressed or whether any answer arrives. By the end, the third stanza reads like a second prayer in disguise. The speaker no longer asks to be right for each other, only to bear it that they are not.
The poem is worth reading because it refuses to console. It does not pretend that acceptance arrives in a single moment of wisdom. "Everyday" at the start and "till now" near the end frame a long routine in which the habit of hoping slowly becomes the habit of letting go. Anyone who has had to talk themselves out of a hope will recognise that struggle, and the poem's power comes from how little it asks the reader to believe.