three hundred years of solitude

feels like i should have something special to say
it seems july is the time for signs
as always
i have no idea if they are pointers or warnings
only that they all go backwards
you didn't see me smile at her
too reserved to write beauty but you know i see it
i breathe my optimism
you read my cynicism
and so the truth will out
too much about recognition for these pages
speak to me friend, or not at all