Sugar, sugar... or something like that. Whatever the taste is, it's wonderful. Her lipstick is my favorite flavor, and I don't even remember what color she liked to wear. My memories of her are always affected by light. A dark shade in blue light, a bright shade in white. Red and yellow, well, her lips just sort of blended in. They have a texture that is just... wonderful. Removing the lipstick with my own lips is my favorite past time. Excuse me, my second favorite. Maybe my third, I don't know. I keep forgetting what she could do with her mouth.
Remember the owl? The one who shows the kid how many licks a Tootsie Pop could withstand? I was the kid, and she was the owl. Lewd, I know, but I can't help it. She's all I can think of. And those damned lips. Sometimes they seem like they're not even a part of her... simply a cage for my favorite song. And my favorite tongue.
I'm doing it again. I'm sorry. But it's too much to withstand. I'm drawn to that mouth. I can think of nothing but that gentle breeze on my face in the middle of the night. No, wait... the way she whistled for her dog to come home after letting it run and swim around the lake. And the way they pursed on the edge of a thought.
Her lipstick is my favorite flavor. It's killing me. I'm watching her talk to a customer. Those lips shouldn't be moving for anybody but me. It's wrong. She starts screaming as she sees me approach. Something about a court order or some other such nonsense. Not my court, not my problem. She told a police officer a while ago that she didn't know me. But she does. We've slept together... I've watched us sleep together. I remember it all.
I catch her reflection and there's another scream. This one is almost music to my ears. Her lips are mine and their taste is just how I remember. As I work on her tongue, I wonder if I should take her voice box, as well. I've never tasted one of those.