The Muscle Memory of 2014

The bank just forced a digital reset,

a string of digits I’ll surely forget.

So I went back to the old one tonight,

the sequence that always felt easy and right.

I typed in your dog’s name and the year we met,

watching the cursor blink like a threat.

But the account is a ghost, the screen is just black,

there isn’t a person to welcome me back.

That string of letters is a dead-end street,

a rhythm my fingers still want to repeat.

It’s a key to a house that was razed to the floor,

still turning the air where there used to be a door.