Leaving Part 2

I've tempted typing telegraphs in glass bottles
but used words are just garbage in your ocean
a motion with soft sails sailing silently into our past
nightly crooning with old tales of once upon sleeping
under back then's blooming blanket of nostalgia and
in those day's praising promising parenthetical's puckering
lips lounging on exposed necks begging an audience with
the wanderer wallowing in his blues trumpeting to those
ghost maidens he once held hands with haunting him
hollow eyes staring back cracked photo folded in his
back pocket locket from  better days or different ways
of living when engrossed by a being posted in the pocket
for a year now steering into the vanishing point that pocket
jeering its chortle hungry for more fear tassel those ropes
for this vessel is about to collide with what if a crash course
forced to deprive him of his fatal thirst exhaustedly lying
exposed among the sun refusing to throw away that
photo that pocket reminds him everything can be kept
safe from time in the name of that precious star still
blinking in his sky their sky so why just toss it
when it still heavily weighs down his hand.