The hell to come… Lucille Harrow drowned herself and they forgot… She would’ve been the mother he needs… Evening tides lick at docked boats, silhouettes in the night working softly, wet wood, time is lost and they’re paid in *****… I cover my face, the sound of strangers filtering by hushed and hurried… “The streets stay empty most of the day”… A woman out at sea, heavy with care, she’ll sink to the bottom of the ocean… “My air is my own I don’t want you ******* breathing it”… I’m alone. Aspirations and motivation sinking to the bottom of a bottle. The moon is too tired to rise and so am I… They pinned you down with rope and words and you bore those marks forever… The boat rocking a lullaby, thoughts aimed at the interstellar, the darkness thick so I inhale… Still masts litter the shoreline, still bodies fill the mind… The boss pays in ***** and the deck hands drink in solitude, in defiance homeopathic… A woman with a heart too full… “She would have been the mother he needs”…