Second Steep

The tea was almost clear by the second time.

I dropped the same bag back in,

watched it unspend what little color it had left—

a few leaves disintegrating at the bottom,

the water barely changing.

I waited three minutes anyway.

Pulled it out.

Held it over the cup,

watched the last drops fall,

heavy with nothing.

This is what extraction feels like:

asking for more than there is to give,

watching something come apart

trying to satisfy you,

the bag falling to pieces,

the water staying almost clear.

I drank it anyway.

Tasted the memory of tea,

the ghost of caffeine,

the thin line between

something and nothing.

It's still in the trash,

the used-up leaves,

the husk of what was already

spent.