A Catwalk Upon the World

A photo from unsplash.com

"Yes, but who will heal us from the deaf fire,

 From the colorless fire running at dusk?"

            Julio Cortazar, in Hopscotch* 

By the time of our first meeting, both of us were college students seldom able to exchange more than a few hasty words. Despite this, something truly mysterious began on that springtime afternoon when our eyes suddenly, for no more than seconds, stared to each other. Right away, his face showed up transfigured by that exchange of glances. More than this, from then on, he began to compose short, interspersed verses.
Soon after that glance he abruptly pulled away from me, like someone who sees something like God, yet wants, needs or feels like forced to remain an atheist. He averted his eyes from mine, as if turning away from a noon’s bright sunshine. never got out on any actual date together.
Only a few days had passed when that exquisite bridge begun to be built right in front of my bedroom’s window. Very little time thereafter — and nobody has been able to understand how and why so quickly — it was ready: a medieval Florentine style catwalk crossing over that broad avenue.
Yes, a huge catwalk with Giotto frescoes.
Artists of all fields, poets, musicians, architects, painters, urbanists rushed to watch it in detail. But just through telescopes, since none would dare touch it, nor get any nearer of such a wonderful masterpiece.
Some experts even pondered taking that masterpiece to an international art exposition taking place in Padova, that same Venetian city where 800 years ago Giotto painted his many shining, deeply expressive glances.
I, myself, have absolutely barred them from doing so.
After graduation, we lost each other completely taking different life paths, with their many searching mazes for love always plenty of illusions, joys, frustrations and pains, hardly aware whether the other one was still alive.
Only that blue catwalk reassured me every passing day that both of us remained still on Earth, alive. To achieve such a certainty, it was enough for me a glance at the frescoes’ figures eyes.
Since that dawn on which the bridge first appeared over there, I got aware it had been built only to be crossed by myself walking towards him, who comes from the opposite side.
Actually, we have never been there, naked on a hot summer night, short before sunrise, above those thousands of passing cars. We never fucked there on our catwalk like noisy cats in heat, or like those butterflies caught by a spiderweb, unable to stop copulation.
No, neither of us has ever walked along it, despite being such the sole purpose of that masterpiece, so full of lustful glances.
Despite our real, concrete lives, so trite, boring and empty, the catwalk was built for our secret dates, hidden amid night darkness, as those of so many lovers, be they humans, dogs, lions, horses, or other beasts.
I hardly know where he is during afternoons, nor who is on his side during the twenty-seven nights on which the moon is not full. We are reborn under every full moon, as it happened on that May dawn of our first explosive heat.
Like pagan gods we do fuck, but only here over this wonderful footbridge, where our naked bodies may be seen only by those lovely shining eyes depicted on frescoes. My lover tells me about that gorgeous woman on the central fresco is Beatrice, Dante’s muse, also stressing that my eyes and hers are much more than extremely similar, actually being the same eyes!

No, we couldn’t keep on living like these crowds of robotized people, empty beings with a lonely, meaningless, too short existence and adrift through nothingness . That’s why, since our first moment, you and I have come from our opposite corners of our dantesque megalopolis to meeting together on the top of this walkway.

Under the full moon, both naked, he tenderly caresses my eyes, my face and kisses me. He touches my breasts with his warm tongue and devours them. Touches my thighs and penetrates me tightly, as the male lion penetrates his female under a tree’s shade in the savannah. Hard as a rock, thick, soft and tender, he tells me that my eyes are indeed the sun, whose infinite energy enabled him to build this footbridge, where we have never been.

For the first time under broad daylight, you might now be seen while crossing our catwalk, having come in search of me. Naked as always upon there, you've stopped right on its top where, despite never being actually together, we used to make love under the frescoes' characters glances. You seemed to miss me. Scared by the idea of perhaps never meeting me on our catwalk anymore, for the first time you felt alone there in the middle of the frescoes' blue.
At noon, only your eyes could dare compete with the beauty of your thighs, your hair, your breasts, your pussy, your mouth, your feet. For not finding me, as indeed none of us has ever been there on our catwalk, you looked at those shining eyes in which Giotto has represented Beatrice's, finally understanding our whole life's play scene.
You saw that truest lovers are eternal, never meet, and keep wild fucking under the moonlight during the warm nights of an endless summer, crisscrossing catwalks upon tiny, very weak hindering, such as the actual, concrete world. They interpenetrate their bodies so fiercely as roaring lions in rut season, on top of walkways upon the world crafted just by the energy and strength of their so horny glances.

So, it is now under noon's sun that we have finally met on our catwalk upon the world, wholly possessed by our wild, intense lions' desire.

No longer do I fear thy glance, as when I did compare them to the sun god (a pretty poor analogy!).
I no longer fear thy eyes.
They are God.

"Nobody will cure us from the dull fire, from   the colorless fire running at dusk."
     Julio Cortazar*, as above(free translation)

 

* “Sì, pero quién nos curará del fuego sordo del fuego     sin color que corre al anochecer?
  “Nadie nos curará del fuego sordo, del fuego sin color que corre al anochecer.”
                               J. Cortázar, Rayuela, 73