Second Steep

The bag is thin now,

almost see-through where the hot water

pulls at its seams.

I don't remember using it yesterday.

I don't remember most things before coffee.

But there it is,

floating in the bottom of the mug,

still attached to its string like it has more to give,

and I'm here,

already reaching for the kettle,

already pouring,

already asking it for something it's already given.

The water turns the color of weak promise.

Not quite amber.

Not quite anything.

I drink it anyway.

It tastes like the memory of tea,

like settling,

like the thing I do most mornings—

reach without thinking,

use what's already been used,

pretend it's enough.

The bag floats.

I leave it in the cup.

Tomorrow maybe I'll use it again.