Eunoia

suffocates the existence of my messages to her,
sends chills to my very core,
see, gish gallop is part of her lore,
ceases the discourse - your brain will be sore.

To find lingua franca with this femme fatale,
show knowledge of words, fret not, keep morale,
my first quatrain to you wields alliteration of sibilant,
I seek to pick your brain, I wager you're ambivalent.