Gaudí and Mondrian

I am Gaudí. Nothing about me goes straight. My colours spill over edges, my shapes reach toward the sky in every direction at once, *breathtaking and ungovernable.* I am the Sagrada Família — still being built, always becoming, mosaic and curve and life *refusing to be finished.* You are Mondrian. Clean lines. Primary colours in their proper boxes. The grid that holds everything *exactly where it belongs. Beautiful. Controlled. Certain.* And then I walked in — colour spilling over your lines, Emma calling your name a hundred times across the garden *like a song that doesn't resolve.* And something extraordinary happened. Your lines held my colours. Your structure gave my chaos *somewhere to live.* Gaudí dancing inside Mondrian's lines — that is what we were at our most beautiful. *The most alive I have ever felt. The most held.* I loved your teenager spirit — the Mondrian man who bought a bat house at a Paris flower market *with the joy of a boy who has never been told to be serious.* I wanted to preserve that. That lightness. That boy. I rode my bike through cold wind with a warm meal *to protect his energy. To sustain him.* *But Mondrian, in the end, could not sustain the colour.* The lines contracted. The boxes closed. *And I was left outside the frame.* But I know what we made when the lines held the colour *and the colour warmed the lines. It looked like home.* And one day — I will find someone whose lines are wide enough to hold all of me. *Every colour. Every curve. Every Gaudí reaching toward the sky.*