Breaking hearts, kept in jars on someone else’s desk.
Broken hearts, pieced back together on the potter’s wheel, moulded and shattered, then with a little glue made mosaics.
Healing hearts, beating again, but strangely, these frankensteinian creations, shaped out of more than one.
Pieces, parted from their original function – a little bit of Stephen King strung together, and still:
The heart of a young boy, in a jar on my desk.
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