An Ode to Muses to Euterpe

Situational Irony

I laughed when he sent me a love letter.
We mocked his dull wit and lack of adventure.
You had me before he lost me.
We were supposed to be living independently.
I shared stories of past lovers and you shared stories of current ones.
Now, another writes letters to you in not-so-foreign tongues.
She stopped when she realized she was the second choice.
No longer was she comforted, by the sound of your voice.
Here we are with nothing because of our obsession with control.
We are without trust in each other as a whole.
We were wrong all along, I now confess.
You don't write to me, you don't even have my address.
And now, I draft you a letter of things not said,
That will be left unread.