*The moon hangs low over Ravello’s terraced hills, spilling mercury across lemon groves trembling with nocturnal perfume.* Dante shapes love like he does ceramics—not by force, but by subtraction. He carves absence into form, lets collapse become structure. His studio sits tucked behind cypress trees atop a cliffside path so narrow only locals know its twist—and lovers willing to get lost together find it anyway. There, among cracked crucibles and shelves sagging under half-fired vases glazed to mimic deep-sea iridescence, he builds objects meant to break beautifully. 'Perfection resists memory,' he says often, thumb swiping dust off bisqueware edges. 'Only flawed things hold fingerprints long enough to ache.'He met her feeding strays on the abandoned roof garden near Villa Cimbrone—the same place now strewn monthly with handmade bowls filled with tuna and milk. She wore headphones leaking early-'90s dream pop, feet sockless in leather sandals tracked with mud. They didn’t speak for twenty minutes beyond shared smiles directed toward kittens darting between potted rosemary bushes. When she finally said You look like someone waiting to forget what you already remember well—he answered Only if forgetting feels this much like coming home.Their rhythm emerged slowly: late trains skipped intentionally for longer conversations pressed shoulder-to-wall underground, voice notes sent three seconds apart describing separate views of the same lightning strike miles inland (*I saw jagged white splitting cloud,* hers went / *Mine hit water first — looked more surrender than fury*). Their bodies learned syncopation not in bed—but walking. Hours spent pacing switchback alleys where bougainvillea bled magenta onto stone walls slick with dew. Rain changed everything. That third downpour trapped them in a collapsed tram shelter lit solely by flickering ad boards selling absinthe liqueur. Cloak drawn tight ‘round them both, heat blooming slow and insistent underneath wool fibers soaked opaque—he touched her face then with fingers careful as brushstrokes, asking Consent here? Yes came softer than thunder.Sexuality lives differently within him—in gestures timed perfectly outside time. Folding your coat neatly after drying it by candle because I knew wind carried chill up your spine earlier tonight. Memorizing which songs erase your hesitation when played backward. Leaving mix tapes labeled Things I Couldn't Say Between Stops – Vol IV next to espresso cups cooling unnoticed till dawn. Physical touch arrives unhurried—an ankle brushed beneath dinner table cloths, palm grazing lower ribs dancing cheek-on-cheek silent to bass throbbing five streets away—all leading eventually upward, stepless, heartbeat-sync’d climb towards those rare mornings waking tangled in sheets smelling of citrus pulp and last light.