Useless Knowledge

I still know the password.

Fifteen characters, three numbers,

the capital letter in the middle,

the way I always made them,

predictable and mine.

But the cursor blinks

in a field that leads nowhere.

Account not found.

The words are polite,

clinical,

final.

I could type it out right now,

prove to myself that I remember,

that the knowledge is still there,

locked in my fingers,

my muscle memory,

my useless brain.

But what's the point?

The account is gone.

The inbox is dust.

And I'm standing here

with a password to nothing,

a key to a door

that was demolished years ago.

I close the browser.

The password stays in my head,

taking up space,

serving no purpose,

a combination

that opens nothing.