What's in a Name?

Shards everywhere.
I'm blind to the sound, for I
see him there, still
aiming the empty bottle
at me.

I see him there
arched like a flower,
a shame-shrunk bud.
I see him
aiming the bottle at me.

I turn to the shards,
he turns to me.

He drinks me in,
refills his heart.
I sweep the shards
away.

What if he'd showered
pink petals
and not the wanting
bottle?

What then,
would I say?

Petals showered,
or a bottle's shards?

I keep them,
as I sweep them-
the shards that go,
are the shards that stay.