Because sometimes I feel like I'm changing from the inside.  My bones are swaying and breaking to the music, retracting from their previous state of being enveloped to a solitary life form, existing alone and feeling battered.  Staring at the tiny creases in my knuckles, some cracked, some bleeding, others I can't quite diagnose under the too-bright off-white lights of this mouse hole of a bathroom.  My love was never strong enough to call back, my lord I wish he was sometimes.  Unanswered telephones, sending straight to a voicemail box that's been full for weeks in an apartment full of broken chairs and books ripped from their bindings.  Sheets strewn around the room in an anxiety fueled cleaning spree, only to be left and forgotten, found days later cold and naked.  Something small but growing, the words come out less and less like I want them to each day.  Sleeping on the floor because it's warm.  Wherever I'm going, there is no we.  Track my steps and trace my trains, I won't look back.