Most nights I’d imagine
how I’d open my skylight:
I wanted to mix the air outside
with the air inside my tight room.
On the first night you slept over,
you told me you’d break through
with a sledgehammer
thawing this room’s cold floors.
With one strike, you said,
we’d fall asleep with the stars
and wake up with the sun.
When you left, I cut my feet
on the constellations of glass
I grabbed each shard one by one,
my feet soaked in my own blood,
but this isn’t to tell you
about shattered windows.
I’m telling you: Gaudi
turned broken glass into art.