Rosary Beads~ by Danielle Dragona

Maybe its better if he doesn’t call, discovering a type of sanctuary in isolation, a strange
sort of solitary safety, a salvation for those terrified to expose themselves. I feel like a
square peg attempting to squash itself into a circular hole.

I was so disjointed the day I left you, alone and adrift in your drowning thoughts that
dragged you effortlessly into their raging undertow, down, spinning and swirling like a
maelstrom. You never had a chance. You gave me a fleeting kiss at the corner, then

turned your back so gracefully to me, spiraling like a top as you sped down the street
toward your apartment to assemble yourself for your gig that night.

Your tuxedo awaits you, tucked away in a dim closet, yearning to feel your essence.
Earlier, you disclosed to me that you’ve been, dressed in your tuxedo every night this
week, when you’re sitting behind the piano, gracing its keys with passion. Your tuxedo
knows the smell of your skin and the taste of your body maybe even better than I do.

You struggled relentlessly to camouflage your emotions like a brilliant disguise, wanting
me to believe your brain was as bare as the evening sun as you sipped your coffee with
wistful hesitation in the sidewalk café. Without warning, I transformed into a spy
watching your private crusade to arrange your thoughts, spill them out through your eyes
and into the world like a tidal wave. How fathers can wreck lives. I can relate. How
readily you forget that I’ve been there, and still am.

Over the smooth tone of your warm voice and under the tranquil words you spoke to me,
I perceived your anxious movements, the swiftness of your eyes, the agitation of your
strong body. I heard your heart beat on my hand. I saw your pain in my own eyes. I
touched your heart with my mouth. To the indifferent spectator, it appeared as if we were
having an effortless exchange, but all the while, the evidence of interior combat was
deafening, words exploding like landmines, falling, crashing down like asteroids of
boundless emotion surrounding us like dying leaves. I saw you morph from a man into a
frightened child. The features in your face grew smaller, pure and more naïve. I saw it
mostly in your eyes, shadowy passageway to what lies within, a life history trying to
conceal itself behind faltering laughs and casual smiles.

So, we ended up here, in this sidewalk café, with you sipping coffee as I unfurl my
unyielding fingers like budding flowers, allowing your unspoken mysteries crash down
like rosary beads that glow like a mutinous inferno, fragments that scream for liberation
from their prison, relics of you, long forgotten, that you allowed me to unearth today.
Your mysteries scorch my waiting hands with their secrets.

But you told me you weren’t religious even though you were born that way. Are you
secretly praying in your darkest hour, beseeching a God you have long denied, hoping he
exists somewhere in this cosmic universe, bestowing some sign that there is reason to
have faith in something? You wear your mysteries around your neck buried beneath
firmly buttoned shirts. You leave your mysteries where your feet have graced these
streets, perpetually preserved in the passing of time.

Walking through these streets with you today on a Sunday afternoon, you guided me
through the labyrinth of your internal mystery, taking me to places where I’d be certain
to uncover pieces of you so I can add to the puzzle of who you really are, not just what
you present to the waiting world.

 ©Danielle Dragona

 

Follow Danielle 

Bio:

I believe my poems to be powerful and not like much that has been written from what I can tell. I dig to the heart of whatever topic I’m writing about, and push the boundaries. I’m not about fluff. I’m about raw emotion. I hope you enjoy my work.

 
 
BlogNostics Advertise With Us

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.