Coffee, Tea or Me

I’m always chastised for leaving in the cup,
A little coffee or tea or me,
This is the foresight of the lonely, I protest.
A little bit of stagnant hope that can be continually rewarmed,
In the microwave, whose tinny music
Is more soothing than judgemental.
At the lowest ebb, peering over the edge of the cup, my limpid eyes hold my gaze steadily.
In the murky pool of sepia,
I find me, in the coffee or tea.

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