Autofill

I was setting up a new account—

email, password, the usual small commitment—

and I clicked into the username field

and the browser just offered.

Her email. The password we made together

on a Sunday because she wanted one account,

not two separate ones.

That was the logic.

That was five years ago.

The username sat in the field in gray text.

The password was dots.

The cursor blinked.

I know what the password is.

Her cat's name, a year we both remembered,

an exclamation point because the site required a symbol

and we were being lazy about it and we laughed.

That's the kind of thing that stays.

The account is gone.

I tried it once, about a year after,

for some show I wanted to finish.

No account found.

Like it had never been there.

I sat with the autofill just sitting in the field.

The cursor didn't rush me.

Then I cleared it.

Typed something new—

longer, no name in it,

nothing that would mean anything

to anyone who knew me then.