Still Unlocking

Half-asleep, I typed the password,

my hands knowing what to do

before my brain could ask it—

the old account, the old code, nothing new.

Capital R, lowercase m, the year

we thought we'd last.

My fingers moved without fear

like time hadn't passed.

Login failed.

The cursor blinked

waiting for access to nothing,

waiting for me to be linked

to what we were discussing.

Eight years deleted.

Eight years I tried to forget.

My hands still carry the heated

memory of the net.

Somewhere there's a version of me

still trying to log back in,

still thinking I can see

the place where we'd been.

But the cursor just blinks.

And I know better now.

My hands make the links

to a past that's no longer showing.