The cube of your quirk swaddles the malleability of each gap, whistling bones in your mouth sensing each flicker of the tongue, where the start of commas halt, and periods huff their first breath.
When you pause, the temperature of Chicago's bittersweet icing shivers once more, good-bye's of sodden mittens lacking any human warmth.
Let me tremble again, an aura a sense of plowed gratitude that reaches the confinements of wingless teachings.
If your pupils would embark to the shameful crumbs of soil, passageway to mass of mind, I'd delve deeper to blinded chambers, the cooing a menacing siren.