Inside the wood of truth is a lead of fiction, of storytelling that becomes the art of words. In their union is utility.

The rain has come and gone, leaving fingerprints everywhere. Each drop which slips from the broad leaves of the banana trees outside breathes your name.

I got the wound, if you got the salt. I am all wounds, and you all salt. For the flavor of light I am torn apart. Dried in the attic like wet paper leaves. Salt brings taste to flesh that has forgotten its zest.

I am not afraid because I have known you and cannot forget the things I felt, never mind the words. While you have been away, I have scribbled novels in the dark, unsleeping and waiting. Every drop of rain is your footfall, coming closer to me because I am in your home and thus have hidden myself in the logic of target.

Can we change the constellations of stars if we wanted, or should we wait for the global rotation, pirouettes of light? When the water hits the leaves now, flat and smooth, I am in the woods in my mind, searching for you, my salt.

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