Her mind was the syntax to a language I had forgotten. Tripping over syllables that left her lips. Playing hopscotch for the first time. Every word she spoke was a smoke ring that lingered in the air. Caressing the thought of her. She had a way of exhaling after taking a hit from her cigarette that felt like the climax of my favorite movie. The way she chuckled about what she was going to say next. It was the only punchline that didn’t need a joke that I enjoyed.