throwaway piece. c4c. ots. etc.

cathy with a k's song
the perfections we lie our heads upon,
were chalked up to some fits of charismatic youth
and the tear-stained pillow you kept
in the corner of your bed is wet with it all.
the bright eyes records scratched from
those early winter mornings when we were all
white as snow are now in a pile on your floor.
i don't love like i did, i won't love anymore.

so we are cut from a cloth,
frayed with time and transgression,
pulled apart with the thought
of a life that's not worth leading.
is this it? are we dead?
or is there something i've been missing?
cause i feel just like corpse,
on these cold and empty mornings.
I didn't like this as much as I usually like your stuff,
its more of an image-packed philosophical questioning than the simple and effective stories I've come to enjoy so much,
but judging it as such, the first stanza flows quickly from thought to thought, but never jumping around as to leave me behind, confused
the second stanza, however, just sort of sits on itself, running in circles