Bobby remembers how Laura Palmer's daytime kisses were made of mint and sugar, with a hint of strawberries floating somewhere in there, like a bright pink angel come down to bless his lips with sweetness. He remembers how her nighttime kisses tasted, of stale liquor, cigarette smoke and the bitterness of cocaine lingering on the back of her tongue.
He morbidly wonders what her kisses taste like now that's she's dead. Everyone is trying to pretend he can forget these things, but Bobby knows better than those hypocrites.
He loved Laura and Laura loved everyone.
Like fire loves the trees.