Times never change, Sappho//You could not weave and I could not write tonight//She asked me to write her essay for her (she hates English class) and I said yes—like a fool to the stockades//I turned my essay in late because of her but it was worth it//She was so thankful and it filled my chest with love//Her text of thanks, She was full of joy all the time//Time is a circle and I kept doing those things//Everything for her//I wrote for her and she became my muse//Who was your muse, Sappho//A servant of Aphrodite you wrote//Mine was a classmate//I wrote for her alone but I was too afraid to ever show her any of my work//Though these poems were written for her she was ignorant to my love in the written form//Love letters became outdated years ago but I still wanted to send her some//Weave my words for her as you did the loom//Months went on and her kiss stayed my inspiration—the warmth from her hands stroked the keyboard through my own limbs//Sappho, you were wrong//My slender hands can still write now, but only about her