Grief is like a vise
clamping your insides
in its iron grip.
It lives there, pressing just enough
so you don’t forget its presence.
Then, a song, a photograph,
something small, smacks you unawares,
and it starts to tighten gradually,
crushing you.
Your throat tightens, swallowing is hard.
You fight to keep your face from collapse.
Your lips wobble.
Tears gather, breath hitches,
the pain punches through.
Eyes and nose drip
and your voice breaks.
Maybe you give in to the pain.
Or perhaps this time,
you win the fight with your face
and manage a few deep breaths.
The pressure eases a bit.
You still feel its hard shape,
but its death grip has loosened.
For now.
Your central metaphor is powerful. Grief often doesn’t disappear; it simply loosens its grip for a while before returning. The final words, “For now,” quietly hold that truth. Thank you for sharing it.
You really know how to make a reader feel something in their body! This one hurt. But so beautiful. Very lovely!