Shadows move under the old skybridge

We stand under the old skybridge in the weedful alley and look down to the vanishing point. The pavement is littered with debris, and on either side, windowpanes hang like guillotines. Behind them, the blackened air shivers, and another sliver falls with a plink. We used to come here for fun, for the hot tingle of fear, the carnal aftermath.

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Standing here now, I remember extolling the Rubble Women, who selflessly cleared the streets of post-war Berlin, sorting out bricks for re-use. You laughed, declaring me gullible, and pointed out it was a convenient myth. Beside me, a sepia woman breaks the handle of her pick, thrusts the shaft into the hard ground and fades.

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The shadow of the old skybridge tightens on us. You say something I can’t hear but I see sound coming out of your mouth in waves, each word in its own orbit, bobbing up and down.  Promised jostles with you in a peculiar jig, as they always have—I want to untether them. Black air shivers.          -plink-

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I think I always knew about vanishing points. Parallel lines don’t converge. The walls with their shivering windows stay a street-width apart. A skybridge spans the gap and eventually crumbles. I pull the shaft from the ground.