Struck

Sometimes
I'm struck
by a memory--
a desire
to use the tiny, metal, digital
extension of "me"
to call out to "you."

I want to ask
"if you could eradicate
a book from the world,
what book would you
un-write?
Why?"

The sudden
shock
of pain
strikes
my chest
at the thought of you--

the impulse
to reach
remains.

It has been hard to kill.
It is hard to keep quite.

Even now,
after so much
progress
 the impulse
to touch
to "reach" you
takes my breath away

the way
the bitter cold
of winter mornings
robs my lungs
and throat of bliss
and leaves them
 too conscience
of their own existence--

Struck by nothing
except reality.