My Faithful Tap Shoes

I stare at my worn leather shoes in the clean mirror, scraping the scratched floor with my taps.
A subtle crack as I draw my ankle in a circle, an immature explosion in my muscles.
A wide breath in, like the first breath in a balloon before it contracts.

I strike the floor, a new eternal dent etched into the wood.
I feel the soles of my shoe hitting the ground, the echo of a pulse reverberating around the room,
colliding with the walls and elasticising off, the sound like a bell in my ears.
My feet begin to tingle, and my emotion increases as my soul deluges into my movements.
My thumping heart against my chest, like a tiger released from it's bonds.

I feel my head engulfed by a white buzz, and my moving tap shoes become an extension of my body,
a grown limb unlike others.
Are my feet flying, or are they crabs scuttling along the floor?
I have no way of knowing, under this enchantment.

And then my head clears, and the clouds float away.
My body is sprawled on the ground, my right and left tap shoes are loose on my foot.
The fabric decaying; a frail fallen leaf.
Shoelaces; a thin old snake skin, hanging limp and damaged.
I take the shoes off my feet, feeling relief through my scrunched toes, the putrid aroma of stale sweat pierces through the air, filling my nose, tasting sour and making me reminisce my hard work.

I feel empty, gazing at the shoes beyond repair, the stitches detached and metal plates pulverised.
A fraction of my soul is destroyed, lost, at the end of the reign of my faithful tap shoes.