POETRY

Angel Number 544
Phoenix Guzzo

A connection is strengthened when my partner and I find common
interests. Like night and day, our appreciation is in the dichotomy
between truths and ideas we do and do not share. We are told there
are seldom relationships that contain a stable balance of this. These
realities are only made by ones brave enough to cast out a line, so now
I find myself reeling in a fish from a lake, which is unbeknownst from
a life I expected to know. As I look out past my pond I see the stars
shining. I hear my songs echo across the water and I laugh because I’ve
already told the joke before he even opens his mouth.
We talk of the past and tell each other legends of humanity. Ones
that divided the world so vastly—they made men kill other men.
All the while, we sit two inches apart: falling in love. It would seem
as though we have settled to hate the other for our differences, but
our bodies, like flashing buttons, react to the appreciation they have
found outside themselves. I can close my eyes to look into the future,
finding parts of the story past the ending, but this is still just a dream.
So, I peel my sight from this vision, and plant my foot into the soil
that is freshly dug, digging holes to change the landscape while he is
beside me planting the flowers.
Now my back has met the cold kitchen floor that does not
belong to me, and I lie paralyzed with laughter from the nonsensical
bullshit we spit at each other. I was afraid of a connection that could
last longer than the attention span of today’s child. He looks down
and our eyes are locked everlastingly. Love like that is problematic,
because we are vividly lost in each other for so long that when we
return, our house has burned to the ground. One of us left the stove
on. Dinner is not cooked without turning up the heat, so now we sit
in ash, still laughing over stupid words we cannot help but say.

68

Afterwards, he pulls his sweater down onto my body. It is his
favourite top because I am the one wearing it. That sweater with a
spaghetti stain on the elbow, and the neckline that shows off our time
together. I love it too because its aroma belongs to the first person I
was devoted to. As soon as we are dressed, we leave. When he starts
the car, I cannot help but remember the man underneath the clothes.
In the end, I have lost the origin of the legend because my house
lies in rubble, and paralysis has broken my body. My unwavering
reflection has become a mirage of the other side of the lake, containing
the entire depth of our time together. The memory of us is now
smaller than the collection of letterforms in this space. Still, these
544 words run repeatedly through my mind, never fully expressing
the feeling that continues to be larger than an English analogy. So, I
read between these lines, discover who I am, and who I used to love.
The ink is already dry, but I finally print the story.

69