Overlay: a series of images in the wrong order by Olivia Wang (15, Massachusetts)

1. Interlude

Funny the things you remember when it doesn’t matter anymore: 
the lightness of trees, the wind 
rustling, throwing back the ghost-curtains of

my room with eyes looking in, all alight in orange 
while the sky fades out.

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2. Returning

On the highway, the chasm of distance
collapses into a plane, determined by just two lines:
that guiding dashed yellow-for-caution under our tires
and the furthering horizon, perpendicular. 
Each turn, memory blending more and more into mundanity,
each moment materializing into something easily broken,
easily lost. I track our journey in every constant ephemeral thing--
the number of McDonald’s we pass, the darkening pallor of the sky,

every heartbeat on the tug-of-war 
tightrope, long road between places
I am afraid to call home.

3. Arriving

At a standstill, I spent so long that day staring at the sky.
Thought: if I could follow it to that intersection of cement & horizon
I could pluck forever
out of the flaming air, hold its heartbeat
in the palm of my hand.

4. Leaving

Streaks of spotlights, headlamps, signals in delirious hues
illuminate a new scene. Ahead are only alien houses, 
though my bones know these roads with a phantom ache.