and I would like to say the final remarks,
  out here on linoleum. thank you for
the last four years. in polaroid lighting,
  I capture the result of every apology I whispered.
these are the scraped knees on playground
  tarmac, a small hand on lit stovetop.
it is my body that becomes the tunnel or
  the car crash or the silly things before. all those lights—
say go, say stop, say slow, say turn off
  the interstate. when we drive, the road
spreads outwards like roots, anchoring
  us to the slow spillage of pavement—
stop signs were recent developments.
  how I remember no one cried until
the graduation robes unfurled
  like a striped flag. after all,
there was no pool to drown in, no house parties,
  no bleachers to kiss behind. just us,
drunk on the feeling of burrowing
  ourselves into the cleaner body
of the walls. in biology, we learned
  termites can eat wood until it rots,
those old cork boards and picture frames,
  if only to live a little longer enclosed
in some form of comfort. my final step
  of growth—to unbecome a parasite
before these wings touch skyscrapers.
  the autopsy reveals how flesh peels
into roadkill, spat gasoline guttered
  by breath. it hangs in the air like
a father's exhale—something so full
  but so empty in how it screeches.
like rubber on asphalt, or the dwindling notes
  of an anthem. the sorrowful glint of brass
against goalpost, bodies pressed to the field
  we'll forever leave behind.