Catching up with grief

(Part I)
I run away from grief,
But the truth is haunting.
I'm on a track, racing against him.
I move forward, delusional,
That I'm winning.
But I see him waiting,
Holding the ribbon,
To my win at the end.

I thought I won against you,
I speak hurriedly.
"I was miles ahead,
You just caught upto me,
Now," he says.
And I can't decide,
If I've lost or won,
This race, if it was one.

(Part II)
The next time I meet grief,
I'm not racing anymore.
He's standing there for me,
As he always does,
Waiting by the door.

Is it a library or a cafe?
I'm unsure of it.
We shake hands,
As he opens the door;
I lead the way to sit.

So frequent have we met,
That I recognise him from afar.
Whispered talks where only he speaks,
Long meets (time is relative)
And an empty jar.
I scream in it, and I leave.