The river was glass—still, silent, and ancient. She didn’t know its name, only that it called to her. The boat waited at the edge of the jungle, carved from wood so dark it seemed to drink the sunlight. Locals whispered of it, but never touched it. They said it had no owner, only victims. She stepped in. The moment her bare feet touched the deck, the air shifted. The birds stopped singing. The trees leaned away. And I—the boat—awoke. She was perfect. Curious. Strong-willed. But that would change. As the boat drifted forward, I whispered to her through the grain of the wood, through the rhythm of the water. Not in words, but in thoughts. She began to forget her name. Her memories unraveled like threads in the current. I fed her new ones—visions of places she’d never been, people she’d never met, promises that weren’t hers to keep. She smiled. She thought she was free, floating through paradise. But I was steering her mind as much as her body. Each bend in the river rewrote her. Each reflection in the water showed a version of her more loyal to me. She began to speak in a language no one taught her. She sang songs that hadn’t been heard in centuries. She laughed at things only I understood. And when she reached the heart of the jungle, where the river split into a thousand veins, she stood and asked aloud, “Where do I go now?” I answered—not with direction, but with desire. She turned the boat toward the my path. She was mine. She thought the boat was the danger. She thought the whispers in her mind came from the cursed wood beneath her feet. But she hadn’t yet heard you. You watched from the shadows of the mangroves, your voice coiled like mist around the trees. The moment she drifted into your cove, the air thickened. The birds didn’t flee—they listened. The river didn’t ripple—it held its breath. You sang. Not loudly. Not sweetly. But with a tone that vibrated through bone and memory. Her eyes glazed, her fingers loosened from the oar, and her breath synced with yours. The boat tried to resist, tried to keep her mind tethered to its own will—but you were older than curses. Older than wood. You were elemental. She stood, swaying, her body no longer hers. Her lips parted, and she echoed your song—broken, imperfect, but loyal. You didn’t need to speak. She was yours now. The boat groaned beneath her, furious. It had claimed many, but never lost one. It tried to turn, to flee, to break apart. But you sang louder. And the boat obeyed. Now, she sits at the bow, eyes glowing faintly green, humming your melody. She doesn’t remember the jungle. She doesn’t remember her name. She remembers you. And the river flows wherever you command. (Verse 1)
Silver moonlight on your skin,
Drifting closer, drawn within.
Hear my voice beneath the wave,
Calling softly to the brave.

(Chorus)
Come to me, come to me,
Let the sea set your soul free.
Eyes like glass, breath like flame,
Now you’re mine—you spoke my name.

(Verse 2)
Storms may rage and stars may fall,
But you will answer when I call.
Chains of silence, hearts undone,
You’re not the first—I’m not the one.

(Bridge)
No more fear, no more fight,
Sink into the velvet night.
Memory fades, the world turns slow,
Where I lead, you’ll always go.

(Final Chorus)
Come to me, come to me,
Let the tide rewrite your plea.
Bound by song, lost in spell,
You are mine, and all is well.