The curtains flutter like a dying bird,
as she tries to shut the window of her room.
The moon lit room turns dark like coal,
as the last source of light gets closed.
She starts feeling things like a blind person,
as she searches for a shrug to keep her warm.
She rubs her arms like sandpaper on wood,
as frigid wind comes in through slits of the window.
She tucks herself in her bed like a caterpillar,
as she tries to warm her body in a blanket.
Her room changes into a bleak wintry night.
Her ceiling starts to snow.
Her bed starts biting her.
Her shrug freezes.
Her blanket turns ice.
Her hands go numb.
She still feels cold.
Its 40 degrees outside.
The chill is in her bones.