How many signs, Do you even Require of me; Just to believe That we're, really, Meant to be? How many sigils, Do you even Need to see; Just to ween That you're, truly, For me? One? Two? Three? Tell me.
Restless I am, unsure of the path and the purpose. I look for clues and subtle signals, in amoebic cloud formations, innocuous billboard signs, remnants of tea leaves at the bottom of caffeinated cups and the flimsy froth that brims my coffee mug. I wonder if the absence of a sign is also a sign?