Gavin Austin
Darkness
After he left, you could not face the crumpled sheets. You felt like the watcher of some foreign grief. ‘Poor woman,’ you muttered to no one, as fate tightened its grip, its steely fingers at your throat.
The room stands as though it never held him. Pointless to stay here, yet you sit and gaze at the same bare walls he saw through a morphine haze. A pall of pain. It shifted and is yours now. Wakes you at night, holds you into morning.
the shadows filling empty spaces a hint of Old Spice on the folded pyjamas tucked beneath his pillow
About the Author
Gavin Austin lives in Sydney, Australia. He writes short fiction, short plays, and poetry. His work has appeared in many Australian and international publications.