Sappho, you wrote it for her didn’t you?
You couldn’t resist when those mahogany eyes landed on yours. They must’ve been the embodiment of the earth, matted soil, yet spring blossoms threaded onto her branches.
She would sing her muses to you, put you up on a pedestal, shower you with her praises.
What was a mere mortal like you to do?
The wealth of a Goddess held in your palms, sunshine she gifts you spilling out the fingertips. You had no reason to deny her, she was clueless.
Who knew it was so easy to fool the deities.
So simple in the way you asked how to conquer love, reminders of your devotion spilling from your tongue. She ate it up, swallowed those sonnets down, completely unaware until it bared its fangs. The tendrils of love slipping into the cusps of her blossom, streaming across emerald veins, completely enraptured.
The only one of your kind to ever do so.

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