I share Jack's sentiment.
Give me love that wrings and shreds me; leaves me vacant and starring, at what the Hell went wrong. If I can count on love, and keep it with my bank receipts, it isn't love. It's habit.
Love is a growing thing that constantly needs to be feed and fought with; tangled and wrapped around. Messy as afterbirth.
You can lose love in a bar, and find it in a temple, but if love doesn't hurt, you aren't in it.
Posted, just to let you know that my feelings haven't changed.