Threshold of Pain

"You write of pain", she said
One fine sunny day
"But you never write of love."
But isn't love the most mundane,
The most basic of all names
Attributed to a feeling
For is not love nothing
But all the other feelings together?
"No", she vehemently denied.
"Love, for one, increases
the threshold of pain."
I looked over my little diary
And into her the depths of her eyes
And she smiled, almost dared me.
I contemplated, slowly opened my mouth
"Aha!", she said, "My point exactly."
"You have never been this patient."
I closed my mouth, opened it again,
'fore her lilylike face, she however proceeded.

"Do you remember the day we first made love
And I bit onto your earlobe to keep from screaming
And you bled from your ear as much as I did that night
And yet you know how you felt.
Do you remember that one rainy night
When you drank the drops from my skin
And Mother called saying Nanna had died,
Yet you didn't know till next morning?
Do you remember that summer afternoon
With the curtains drawn, I saw Conjuring with you
And your favourite Zidane jersey never dried?
Do you remember that night when your uncle..
When you did not talk, well your eyes did
And you slept with my hair in your wet eyes
And your head on my sunshine yellow skirt
That you always said looked like an omelette?"

And today, as I sit at my desk, with a dry pen
Barely scratching the pad, tearing pages meanwhile
Are you still waiting for me to write of love?
And when the unforgivable sheet of rain knocks
On your window pane as much as mine
Do you still reprimand me for not liking rains?
And lastly though, if you ever chance on reading this,
Do you think this is of love, or is it just me
Increasing my threshold of pain?