That kind of love

Mine isn’t the type that takes you under.  This pain is not the sort that’ll eat you alive – the all-consuming, coeur fou.

It’s not that kind of pain, because it wasn’t that kind of love. No, mine is constant; the sort of pain that sits behind your ribs.
Chronic.
It waits patiently for a moment to catch you unaware; to remind you it never left. It has a dullness,  a darkness, to its ache.
Persistent.
Unremitting.
In the background and in the spaces between seconds, making itself known.
Just enough,
that I am still on my feet.
Just enough,
that I never forget it’s there.
It churns, perpetually away in the pit of my gut and every now and again, it crawls up into my throat and tries to choke me.

I wish it would –

I wish it would take me or leave me.
But it never does.
It never will.

It’s not that kind of pain.
 It wasn’t that kind of love.

 – Kellie Wilson

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