It was our cabinet.
Not his nor hers, it was ours.
The chip in it when my mom wasn’t paying attention.
The paint stains when we changed the wall color.
The originally black, though now bronze handle, worn from our many touches.
These things made our cabinet “imperfect”,
But it wasn’t any less ours.
And now, it isn’t. It is no longer our cabinet.
A new mother will accidentally chip it.
A new color will adorn the walls.
A new handle will replace the old.
Our cabinet will belong to someone else.
And the new cabinet will technically be ours,
But it will never truly be ours.
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 7:50 PM UTC
It was our cabinet.
Not his nor hers, it was ours.
The chip in it when my mom wasn’t paying attention.
The paint stains when we changed the wall color.
The originally black, though now bronze handle, worn from our many touches.
These things made our cabinet “imperfect”,
But it wasn’t any less ours.
And now, it isn’t. It is no longer our cabinet.
A new mother will accidentally chip it.
A new color will adorn the walls.
A new handle will replace the old.
Our cabinet will belong to someone else.
And the new cabinet will technically be ours,
But it will never truly be ours.
first poem post on here, kinda nervous