I’m surprised by those who say they have no secrets.

Some say it like a sign of honesty, but I’m not sure if I believe them.

I have secrets, and many.

They float in the air, invisible particles to the rest, but I recognize them.

I have them inventoried.

Some letters for me hold a secret, they are a code.

Some colors, a musical note, a texture, a scent, some objects, a place, some images.

My secrets are winks left in the places I’ve been.

And all my secrets are there in plain sight.

On page 77 of the seventh book on some shelf.

Some of my secrets are hidden in my photographs; perhaps they’re visible sometimes, though I erased almost all of them years ago.

My secrets are sometimes written on the soles of my shoes or tucked into the tiny pockets of my pants or behind some painting.

My secrets are like that.

Sometimes I hide them on the surface, leave them on the table, next to every day, in the remnants of wine in my glasses, in the breadcrumbs, at the foot of the bed very close to a blue rug, camouflaged among dirty clothes waiting to be washed.

My real secrets are sometimes hidden in my fictions.

And that’s where they’re best kept. Right in front of me.