How about we call your lips an instrument. Kind of like the one I save up for each week, found in music store bookended by sex shops on west fourth. That color is just red but the flesh that it paints is enigmatic and mathematical. You are unable to whistle, but I am unable to walk on tip-toes, nor do I understand the eloquence of rouge and elevated eyelashes. Sometimes I am completely unaware that my mouth is an aerophone. Can you title me gentleman. I will travel closer to the curb to save you from oncoming horses and endless city splatter.