Muscle Memory

The screen is a wall of white light

in the kitchen at two in the morning.

My fingers move left then right,

acting without any warning.

It’s a name and a year and a sign,

a sequence I shouldn't still know.

A ghost of a digit, a line

from a life that I had to let go.

The red box appears like a stain

to tell me that access is barred.

But the rhythm is deep in the brain,

and hitting the 'enter' is hard.

The cursor just blinks in the dark,

a small, steady pulse on the glass.

Waiting for someone to spark

a ghost that it won't let pass.