Ghost Access

My fingers typed it in automatically—

the password I haven't used in years.

The asterisks filled the field,

and then I remembered: the account is gone.

Deleted. Erased. Disappeared

the way old things do when nobody's watching.

But my hands still know it.

Still remember the muscle memory

of those eight characters,

the sequence my body kept

even after my mind

had let it go.

The cursor blinked, waiting.

The password was wrong because

there was nowhere left to send it,

no door for the key to open.

I closed the browser.

Deleted the history.

But I can still feel it in my fingers,

the ghost of something I used to be,

the person who needed that combination,

who mattered enough

to have a place

in the digital world.

Now I'm just someone

whose hands remember

passwords to nowhere,

who types in the dark

and gets sent back to the beginning,

to the login screen,

to the place where nothing waits.