There must be a word for a person who longs to run into the eye of a storm, a word for every tree that lies slaughtered on the streets after a cyclone. A word like lachrymose or pulmonary. A word for they have left you alone to face your doom. In Aleppo. In Aleppo. I cannot speak of Aleppo.
Only that it is the opposite of breath.
There must be a word for the walk home at night. Your belongings in two bags, feet in mud. For a family thinking they will return. Maybe the house still stands. Maybe the sea. The dead leave no clues about what lies beyond. We call it eternal. We call it now.