Concrete, with extract of sky

She plays snap with her eyelids, a burst of chalky sky gnawing at her glances. Like lightning freed from a valley, the sun has fizzled out. Rosehips creep around the torn-up foreground, the background possessed by crumbling towers of concrete, humming the clouds away.

Her hyper-curled lashes animated, she dreams about her cheeks sampling the sun when the sky reclaims the distant melodies siphoned by the building. The building will be ruined entirely, deconstructed. She will be mesmerised by the vastness of the landscape and will gaze upon nothing but gentle wisps of fractured clouds.

The day after the concrete is extracted from the sky, she returns, ensnaring herself with tangled vines on the ground, holding her down, as if she fears she will float away. She clings to the moss, the pebbles, the sparse patches of grass, her pupils enlarged. She imagines the abandoned contents of the building - twists of webs left by spiders, curled-up woodlice, scraps of torn down wallpaper and then she is plagued by tumbling fragments of bittersweet tales of everyday ennui.

She crawls towards the rubble, serenaded and searching, with a shifted tantalisation. It is then that she sees the reflections of the sky mutated in the remains, as if the concrete had extracted a particular essence when it fell, and sky and building had merged.

Years later, she has drifted far from those concrete towers, and is working underground, amongst painted words and grains of flour. She sees the sky crackling on the concrete that surrounds her, and realizes the repair, her view luridly swollen without obstruction or haze.