Because every time she saw him for the last time,
that thing ensconced by her ribcage
into a zillion shards of coloured glass,
scattering haphazard rainbows
of sparkling broken light.
Like pieces of a butterfly's wing,
hidden in the mossy brickwork
of a walkway
they were going to build over.
(PS: Our college is nuts. Just thought I should tell you. They're covering up everything charming about the building in marble that reeks of money, without actually making sure all the stuff underneath works. Water, electricity, ventilation. Boy, some alumni are going to rave.
PPS: This photo is entirely unedited. The first in a long time. Maybe I should get back to doing that some more.)