We used to drink tea together.

The tea bag bleeds.
Weeping into hot water,
the sunken sac looking
up to the surface,
spoon-suppression under
tiger lily swirls of earthy aroma.
Blood-orange.

Fish it out -
wrinkled, lame, limp bag.

Milk it
until potpourri dryness ensues,
until the leaves are bitter and lifeless.

Discard it -
the tattered fragile mess.

Now, I am just your tea bag.