All aboard, we were. Or so I thought.
I leaned over the deck and watched the mainland shrunk into nothingness, not even a speck. The damp, cool steel seethed my skin as sea mists rolled and lingered for company.
I have eaten all my provisions and drank the last drop of my sanity. And in the midst of this white silence, my only source of comfort stems from my own voice — some days a whisper, most of the time a scream.
A hollow rusty sound of thump thump breaking every rib in my body.
Stranded I have been, and running out of words I am. I leaned over the deck and watched my empty space — the inviting void, the welcome feast, my splintered ribs.
And I fell, down down this nautical graveyard, and no one heard a sound.
Not even the sullen rain.