Ignorance Is Bliss

The heart of you is something I don't quite get, but I don't wnat to.
It beats inside you but nothing makes sense.
You don't breath, and your blood is dry.
You look like a piece of paper,
paper like wrapping for my father's cigarette filters.
He burnt those things down to the nub, smoked three packs every day.
But I don't smoke, so I don't understand
that thing inside your chest, covered by something close to human scales,
but not quite squishy enough. More like fine Italian leather
on the Ferrari's dashboard. But you aren't like the Ferrari
which burns medicine red, you,
you, you are dead.