I never take my tea bag out of the cup,
a conscious act of defiance and empathy for leaves with no belonging,
until it becomes face-twistingly bitter.

Sunlight hasn't woken yet, but we have.
There's steaming tea, ink-covered notes, soft keyboard taps,
delicate thread stitching together an all-consuming comfort.
Even the wood knows to creak in hushed tones.

I never take my tea bag out of the cup,
but one of you has taken to removing it when I'm not looking,
sparing me with kind eyes and kinder hands.