I step onto the wood floor
that years of metal has scuffed and dented.
The tan shine of the wood that was once there
is now hidden by grimy, grey dust.
The leather inside my shoes is perfectly molded to my arch.
The metal on the bottom is worn from hours of passionately striking the floor.

I seclude myself from the outside world
and listen only to my rhythms of metal against wood.
No stereo, no speakers,
but there is music.

I create the rhythms.
I create the sounds.
I create the music.

My mind jumps back to the present
when I hear chattering from the room next door.
I abandon the room, the wood and the moment one last time,
but there's something about metal on the hardwood floor
that I will never leave behind.