A whistle, blows off the steam heated inside the kettle. Warmth is luscious and comforting. The sensation that will soon puncture between your lips. It comes to a boil, the whistle grows greater. Higher. Oh that one night. The note reaches soprano, and continues. Water rises to a boil. Anger. Only a sound that can make your ears throb. Grasping the handle, you pull the *** from it's key source. Oh how you yearn to do the same. Something this bitter, needs a sweetener. The warmth will exit. Won't it need someplace to go? Honey, your warmth is forever welcome, if you find yourself becoming cold on the boil.