A Teabag Used Twice

I drained my cup, the last sip bitter and cold,

staring at the teabag, sagging in defeat,

a weary reminder of comfort retold,

its flavors faded, but I can’t take the heat.

I sit on the edge of my bed, lost in thought,

hoping for warmth from this tired old brew,

yet excuses swim in the same circle I fought,

chasing the taste of a comfort I outgrew.