Intuition deciphers the kiss,
And a misplaced hand on my thigh
Conjures the nights I missed,
It's been two-hundred centuries,
And still, intuition deciphers the kiss

I know his kind,
He's the sort of boy
Who reddens white roses,
All the while, fifty-miles away (by train)
His "true love" supposes,

I recall the taste of summer,
And he tells me it's winter,
Through Pachelbel's Canon, I am ******-eyed
And he tells me I haven't realised
'Cos I have not been Spiritualized,

I know his kind,
He's the sort of boy
Who bores with unfathomable proses,
All the while, with him I stay,
As my "true love" supposes

The space between him and I,
Dwarfs the Grand Canyon,
It warps and shrinks then unfolds
Wider than ever before,
For every three steps I take,
It becomes apparent
That nothing has changed