The Art of Imitation

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Literature Text

I danced with you upon hard floors, clicking my heels at the same time as yours, copying you relentlessly - the way you wanted me to. You hinted at certain steps and I acted them out obligingly. I know nothing of dance but I know the rhythm of blood - beat, beat, beat, thud, thud, thud. Mine was faster than speed whilst yours bled out slow lethargy, swallowing my red-heart noises and clumsy steps with tongue and throat. I ingested instructions and spat out conformity with wide, wide eyes. I swirled my legs through oxygen and too much carbon just like you did - gaining education in the art of imitation. Sunlight streamed into and my open spaces, pouring itself through our illusion of immortality and slashing out any chance of happily-ever-after. Your face turned to ghostly shades and sunlight changed to darklight as we spun unimpressive webs. Our faces were covered in grey, white, black and our bodies formed an arch of cheap fragility; struggling to find anything more than skin. We lived inside dance and hearts for short bursts at a time, hiding away in caves within existence. We fed upon fabrication and we could not bring ourselves to believe in anything but false dreams.

When the sun rose in cloudless skies and rain dribbled onto duplicated smiles we broke like crowds and slept for endless amounts of time. But endlessness decided it had had enough of our pretence, our silent drama - it ripped away our shadows and dropped us like lead. We fell as feathers onto pillows instead of concrete. At least eternity didn't hear the beat, beat, beat and the thud, thud, thud of my blood as it fell from fantasy into reality and remained exactly the same.

15th April 2005
For N.S.
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