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.