by Rafael S.W.
She was getting ready for work and I was watching her cover up her nakedness, piece by piece. Whenever she did this I felt things catching in the back of my throat and they didn’t leave until she had had gone. In my mind I lay on the bed like one of those river cleanup sieves, trash slowly congealing around my wide open mouth. She was beautiful. And every morning I was sure she was leaving.
I watched her this morning, as she worked her way up into clothing. Each step seemed to take her further away from me and further into the world. I wished I could save her. I imagined her at work, one lonely girl in a sea of ties. They wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between her brave smile and her real one. It was cold in these mornings now and she got dressed quickly. She was wearing a white blouse, a new one, flecked with red dots to attract the eye. But then there was something strange, she stopped for a second. “Oh,” she said softly, turning to me, holding her hands to her mouth. She coughed again and I noticed that her hands were brimming with freshly cut poppies, violently red flowers that were already starting to drip onto the floor.
Rafael S.W. exists for the glorious stories. He has been giving them out like strange candy for about 11 years. He is studying at RMIT, where he is one of the founding members of their newest secret society- ‘Dead Poets’ Fight Club’. Rafael, the writer of broken-hearted boys and the ocean. Rafael whose soul is electricity and banks.