Ghost Login

I was resetting something new,

actually something I use,

when my hands betrayed me.

They moved like I hadn't told them to.

Like they had their own memory,

separate from my brain.

The password came out—

****** —

six letters,

a number,

a character I used for everything once.

For the email I haven't checked since 2021.

For the forum that's been scrubbed.

For the account I've been telling myself

doesn't matter anymore.

I stopped mid-keystroke.

Cursor blinking.

Waiting for a server that isn't listening.

Waiting for a database that's gone.

My fingers knew.

Still know.

The account's been dead for three years

but my hands didn't get the memo.

They move toward ghosts.

They remember the shape of doors

that were sealed shut years ago.

I'll delete this tomorrow

and type it again the day after.

The body is faithful

even to the dead.