sunday poetry

owning up to the past
is a hard thing to do
when you keep regretting
every little thing

the way you waited by he phone
daydreamed to your heart's content
that who you're thinking of might someday (soon) sweep you off your feet

all those hours wasted, you sigh
with a heavy regret-laden breath
and rather than moving on, walking forward
you dwell on those "wasted moments", only to waste a little more