Crushed. That’s how it feels. Or maybe it’s the rocking of this boat causing my innards to crash against the linings of my skeletal, smashing my organs to pieces with every wave that licks the thin frame of our vessel. Soon I’ll be sediment on the sea floor, no different than the shells of others shattered before me in the Atlantic. The port authorities will tax my emotions and I’m afraid I haven’t the funds to return to shore. Heartbreak takes a heavy toll.
It appears my captain has accepted another assignment, abandoned ship, and left his sailors hat racked in the bridge. My alignment must have been off and while he steered left, I uncontrollably drifted right. Not to worry, he hasn’t yet retired, and someone else will come to pilot me through the sea, someone with hands worn from experience, a sunburnt furrow in his brow from staring into the horizon, and blue eyes from drinking in adventure, a thirst that drowned him from within.
Just last month my newly painted façade photographed well to tourists who came for a ride, but these dents endured with reckless directive have depreciated my value and for now I rest docked in port, awaiting the season where I might appeal again, valued at full price and ready to tear once more through unchartered waters.
In the meantime I’ll take more whiskey in my drink, please. Drinking like a sailor finally holds merit. The tides sloshing through my digestive tract have me drunk on self-induced motion sickness. While I’ll soon jump overboard, raise to the surface belly up where I’ll breath easy in the stillness of my own ship’s wake, I’ll always be swimming through my thoughts, for love sick has no cure.
One thing I’ll never forget though, was how good my captain looked in nauticals.