I Like to be Warm in the Coldest of Rooms

The air slithers in, a snake through still waters,
Sharp as a razor, scraping my cheek.

Beneath my duvet, braising in calmness,
Heat pooling in the crooks of my knees.

Waves of frost gently garnish my eyelids,
Sinking me deeper in my feathered throne.

Fingers knotted in the hollow of my chest,
Smothered like embers, drowned by the rain.

A crack in the window gives me my lungfull,
Steam softly exits, transposed by my breath.

A picture sans light, brightened by contrast,
I like to be warm in the coldest of rooms.