My plants are not looking 
towards my window longingly,
they are simply adhering to biology.

They are not sad
when I forget to water them,
they are just slightly closer to being dead.

An old housemate named them all:
Algernon, Brünehilde, Sven… 
I forget the rest.

I am too tired to anthropomorphise
but after staring at them for some time
I am uprooted from my bed.

I find myself tipping water 
intended for my hangover
into their parched bodies.

And I can’t help but give them voices,
please, now open the curtains
our leaves are aching.

The morning light is surprising;
somehow I’d forgotten 
how different it is 

from the dullness of afternoon,
how it changes the colour 
of everything

in my room,
how suddenly I want
to move again.

It’s then I hear Algernon laughing, gently,
and you thought we’re the ones
being given humanity.