I discovered you long before the city became my home. You lived in a studio under the el and wrote the Fibonacci Sequence on the walls with permanent marker. The landlord loved your quiet sobs and the springless sway in the center of your mattress. The night we met, I slept with my head in your lap while you preached a pulpit of your worst fears—the spines of desert flowers pierced through the palm of your hand, the venom of a jellyfish and the tender skin behind your knees. When our friends married, you carved a chimera from a roll of butcher paper and set it on fire. In the bridal suite, your chest filled with smoke. In the river, you placed your heart in the belly of a steel drum and watched it float away.