Familiar Scents

I opened the cupboard, the sharpness hit hard,

that ghost of bleach, a memory’s shard.

Half-full in the bottle, a relic of days,

when cleaning felt like I could scrub out the grays.

The dim light caught dust in the air, swirling free,

while the scent clung like an old, faded plea.

I scrubbed at the floors, but the stains never fade,

in the corners of rooms, all the choices we made.