Dear 16-year-old me,

Hug him more fiercely.
Retain how it feels.
Go to that concert with
him next February,
it’ll be his last February,
it’ll be your last warm February.

He would’ve sounded older
now, looked more tired,
whiter hair, wrinklier skin,
more lines across his face,
more boring morning routine.

Stop munching on comatose
what-ifs. Stop scraping buried
grief. Stop wishing he’d
knock the door
on your birthday.