The Present

Before Expiration

I couldn't put it away.
Not in the back pages of a journal.
Maybe I can tie it onto the tail of a balloon,
and send it floating into the sky.
Seal it into an envelope,
and send it far, far away.

It would still come back.
Return to sender, it would say,
stamped in severe, red ink.

Return to sender, it would say.
There was no mailing address to begin with.
How should I know where it's headed?

But I want to put it away,
lest I see it
dry and die,
the leftover dredges
of consumed tea in a cup,
bitter to the taste.