The Datura that Grows in My Backyard

Her seat is by the north
eastern windowpane – my
favourite, where the morning
bitter aftertaste and chill don't
hurt nearly as bad – and a glass of
milk balancing her weary head,
eyes already closing in.
It works for some, old
fables told me; I will have
lonely peace for a while.

I have penned twentysix pages
since then – below average, no sides
and no development whatsoever, my
hand really could use a muse, or
a Cassandra at least – yet still
there she is, fast asleep, dreaming
of me being in her dreams.
But rose coloured is all that matters
to me, so I don't want to know that.