Time is the one thing that never changes, and the speaker can't stop thinking about it. The opening lines describe it "eternally trudging forward," a phrase that makes time feel heavy and tired rather than graceful. Against that steady march, the speaker piles up wishes: to change time, stop it, rewind it. The short, broken lines mimic that restless bargaining, each wish arriving before the last one has settled.
The poem then shifts to the image of writing. Life becomes a book, and the speaker imagines erasing pages and starting a new story. It's a familiar kind of regret, the urge to fix what's already done. The ending is the most telling part. "It would be better than this, / Right?" is a question, not a statement. The speaker wants reassurance but doesn't seem sure. The mood is wistful and a little uneasy, tinged with doubt about whether a rewritten past would really be better.