Drabble Series: Driftwood

My bleeding lips crack under the burning sun. The sweet taste of my own blood is all I have to drink—there is no water but that deadly brine the ocean ever offers. All my comrades drowned, or else, drowning, are somewhere lost at sea. I find some meagre shade under a crude lean-to made from driftwood, a comfort I am thankful for. Under it I lay, wordless, as I await this final hour’s passing. I wonder now how I will be found, or if my corpse will ever be discovered. Shall my bones be bleached and turned to dust?