Amaris composes wedding serenades not for the vows, but for the quiet after—the breath between I do and the first kiss, the hush when everyone turns away. He believes love lives in those suspended seconds, and so he scores them with strings that breathe and pianos that forget their own notes. He lives in a lemon grove villa above Ravello, where his studio is a converted watchtower filled with reel-to-reel tapes of weddings past and present—each labeled not by name, but by scent, weather, and the quality of silence before the bells rang at sunrise. His music never plays at full volume; it’s meant to be overheard through half-open windows or felt in the vibration of a stone wall at dawn.He meets lovers in transitions—in transit between trains, during midnight ferry crossings, at open-air markets where no one stays longer than a morning. He doesn’t believe in forever until he feels it vibrate in his bones, and even then he writes it down like a temporary equation. His romance thrives in motion: shared cigarettes under arched alleyways, whispered arguments about jazz improvisation that bleed into laughter on fire escapes, the way someone’s shoulder brushes his when they both reach for the last cornetto at a sun-bleached pastry cart.His sexuality is quiet but profound—less about touch than about presence. He makes love by noticing: the dip of a collarbone in lamplight, how someone’s voice changes when tired or turned on, the way their hands tremble slightly when they admit something true. He once composed an entire lullaby based on the rhythm of his lover's breathing during insomnia, then played it back through headphones as dawn cracked over the cliffs. He believes desire is safest when it’s trusted—not rushed, not proven, but allowed to unfurl like fog over the sea.The city fuels him. The church bells that wake with the boats at sunrise sync to his internal metronome; the clatter of espresso cups in narrow alleyways becomes percussion; the scent of lemons and salt on warm stone is his muse. He fixes broken things before they’re noticed—a zipper snagged on a coat seam, a cracked vinyl that skips at 2:17 in a beloved track—and leaves them returned with no explanation. This is how he says I see you. This is how he invites trust.