Object of Your Imagination

Sometimes I wish I was the wisps of steam rising from a cup of coffee on a cold Thursday morning -
free to float and linger
and disappear
into beams of light gently seeping through the oak tree's mended canopy -
refreshed by tipping a pot of scalding obsidian acerbic beverage,
I would rise again like the Phoenix from the burning pyre;
I would be the object of your imaginative musings
(it looks like a bear… now it looks like a fish… oh, a bear eating a fish!),
but you could simply blow me away with a sigh -
disrupting my steady current unto the vaulted sky -
a lingering desire to start the day better than Wednesday ended.

I know each word your cracked lips form
will jab minute holes in my opaque veneer
and I will disperse into the rising light before your eyes
without a goodbye
like a strange car passing along a road you have travelled so many times -
and yet,
I know that you will notice the difference
and ask for a refill
so that you can once more look upon the ringlets of steam rising
from the pool of black liquid
that had gone tepid against your cracking lips.