And the young man said

It is a terrible thing to be in love.  When lovers are together, the romantic may speak of harmony and counterpoint, the sound of two souls breathing, forming a sort of gestalt perfection.  When they are apart, he may speak fondly of longing, but the reality of separation is far worse than mere dissonance.  A tamer word is passion, a truer one is fire.  It lives and breathes to burn and consume--in the darkest hours, it binds and suffocates; love is a many-tendriled thing. 

At the very least, it varies in its torture.  At times you feel the strands of your sanity unravel, inch by eternal inch, until breathless, mindless, you pray for sleep.  It is little wonder that lovers are mistaken for madmen.  It is as a wise woman asked, "What horror is a lover incapable of when he acts in the name of love?"