for letting this keep us apart.
Only a stranger
can hold up the wall
we need between us.
Until we’re ready to tear it down.
Occasionally,
sometimes
—okay, usually—
people ignore me.
Post-Shifters pretend they can’t see
the ghosts around them.
It’s cool, I get it.
They have lives that can’t stop
every time a ghost needs help.
(And we all need help.)
They have lives.
But after 233 days of death,
I can tell the difference
between being ignored
and being invisible.
The arcade is full of shadows.
I’m standing in one now,
next to the Skee-Ball court.
But no one sees me.
I step in front of a scrawny guy
who looks fifteen or sixteen
in his oversize D.C. United jersey.
“Dude, help me out. I just need—”
He walks through me,
counting his tickets