Waking

I hate to see you when I'm awake.
It always seems to happen
I hate to see you
when I'm awake. I would hate to wake

with you, to flee from
your waking as its rough bright sand
burns under my feet

and fly from you through that murky
constant sea of crimson fire
with its frozen moon & three suns
away from the volcano you chose,
away from my worst fear

I would like to take from you the golden
fire the terrifying black spark, the only
thing that allows you 

power anywhere in this 

waking world, anywhere

that I am awake. I would like to flee
from you up the broken stairs

for the first time & become
the bird that would slip through 

your fingers, a drop of water
impossible to hold
to where you have never 

seen, and where
even your breath cannot pass.

I would like to be the fire
that burns mockingly on the far side 

of the sun. I would like to be that untouchable

& that free.

_______

Done in response to prompt 30 of NaPoWriMo 2013. A reversal of the poem Variations on the Word Sleep by Margaret Atwood