The Persistence of Time

Time is unforgiving. Time, it seems, is cruel.

If I had that fine Swiss watch I always dreamed of, would it matter?
Could it take me back to that eve of indecision? Would it let me course correct?
Would it let me go back even further, where indecision could be met by strong conviction; 

thus maintaining your regard?

It seems the hands have stopped. The progress of future dashed.
No more talks, no more laughter, no more endless hours marked by any ticking clock.

The once vibrate, living, endless closeness has turned into its own hollow metal frame. 

You said you’d wait, you said you’d be there at the end. 

But time it seems is hollow; pushing onward into dusk.

All oscillations stopped. I awake to cold indifference, hope dashed by busy disdain. 

And with each swinging of the pendulum I hear, “your fault, too late, too bad.” 

Without a minute of reprieve, life kept ticking onward, “too late. too bad… goodbye.”

Is there ever a hope of equilibrium? Is there affection to win back?
Ever waiting for replies; time flies, time lies, hearts break. And I am left, time frozen in regret.