Do not believe what they tell you about Grief:
I will tell you this much because I know him very well.

Grief is an old
and sad
and terrible friend
who clings to you with the heaviness of a freight train
but finds the litheness to spring from you weightless.
He holds your throat in the strength of his hand,
bruises your skin, confuses your body
and lets go only when you've made it clear
that you have surrendered
and settled for a life of him.

He will leave

you will find relief

time will go by


and then you will feel different, gentle, beautiful hands on your arms,
hands that remind you
that humans can be tender




and suddenly you cannot help
but  think of how Grief held you so long ago and
by mistake
(what have you done?)
you have allowed his return,
he has taken your reverie
as an ominous invitation
to ever so slowly curl his limbs around your ribcage,
invade your warrior bloodstream
and effortlessly cut off
every molecule of oxygen you had spent so very long breathing in.

There was something about her
that stilled a room,
that stopped them dead in their tracks
and pulled them into the eye of her storm,
confused them
so their focus landed on sweaters and hairstyles;
and they never put it together,
never pieced you into her puzzle
and ever acknowledged
that the way she wore you,
the way she draped your gaze across her chest,
proud, like quiet couture,
was what made her startling to watch.