My prison kiss, my dying wish.

L'espurna que encén la flama, aquella idea que de cop se'ns finca al cap i ens treu la son, i I know I gotta stop love, but I don't know how.
I sembla que el món ens persegueixi o que fugim de nosaltres mateixos.

But after we danced tot he shipping forecast, the words escaped your mouth:

"I know it's gotta stop love, but I don't know how".

Now the stairs forget your shoes, and the gate don't creak for want of you.

But the jury's out on me.

We're wise beyond our years, but we are good at bad ideas, my love.

Or so it seems to be. 

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