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The Doctor called Rose pink and yellow once, but that's not right. She's not yellow, she's gold. She put together the broken pieces of him and held them together, tighter than glue, more precious than gold. She made him into something like art.
Then he lost her. And now, he's left her behind.
What right does he have, to keep this piece of her when he abandoned her, ran away like a coward without so much as a goodbye? What right does he have, to continue profiting from a miracle given to him out of a love he betrayed?
It isn't hard to find them, looking in. The tendrils of gold sealing the faultlines of the Doctor's mind. They danced around in the corners of his vision, when he took away Donna's memories. He almost mistook them for regeneration energy, at first. Thought that committing this violation would rightfully kill him.
But when the Doctor pulled away, his barbaric deed done, it was familiar arms he caught Donna in. It didn't take him long to realise what that meant. He only had to get her home first.
Now he is alone and still in the body it would kill Donna to see again. In the body he shares with the one-hearted bastard who got everything he's ever wanted. And the Doctor is all out of excuses not to deal himself the final blow that justice demands.
The shade of gold is unmistakable, with his focus right on it. The same gold that poured out of the eyes of a goddess who saved his life and burned him into something new with her light. Now it's everywhere, cradling every jagged broken piece, nestled in every crack. The Doctor allows himself this last opportunity to admire it.
Then he claws it out.