For S

The heart is only an organ:
anthropomorphisation of the flesh
is just another lie
                             but
poetry doesn’t need truth:

My heart speaks to you
& my skin dreams of you.
Harmonic shivers* slither up my spine
whenever I remember the time we
spent together.

My fingertips have memories
of what we did to each other;
my liver is in mourning, my
veins keep flowing
                               as my spine
                                                  shivers.

* Shivers – Against Me!