whenever Aura or anyone younger
had to dodge the dead.
“Post-Shifters,” they call themselves,
the generation who sees ghosts.
I’d be one
if I’d been born two months later.
I’m glad I wasn’t,
since ghosts can’t see each other,
not even the ghosts of post-Shifters.
It was bad enough to lose the living
without losing the dead too.
“Senior Week trip,”
I remind Aura.
She opens her
espresso-drop eyes.
And though the morning light
washes out my violet glow,
making me invisible,
those eyes find mine.
Aura never looks through me.
She whispers, “Good luck,”
and reaches out her hand.
I cover it with my own,
wishing I could hold it.
I’d pull it to my lips,
against my cheek,
around my waist,
down my back.
Both hands,
squeezing,