Love is as trite as a poem heard thousand times, like a song that always rhymes with heart, like all foolish gifts for lovers, like the thousand hearts that take shape everywhere, engraved, drawn, breathed or just thought. Hearts of boys and girls and young old people who are still stringing each other hands. Kisses, caresses, gasps that can’t wait for Valentine’s Day, that are in a hurry for lips, eyes, skin and dreams made true every day with a thousand gifts, hearts and stars, thoughts, games, symbols engraved on the arms, on the hands looking for the soft warmth of the usual words…

Les enfants qui s’aiment s’embrassent debout
Contre les portes de la nuit
Et les passants qui passent les désignent du doigt
Mais les enfants qui s’aiment
Ne sont là pour personne
Et c’est seulement leur ombre
Qui tremble dans la nuit
Excitant la rage des passants
Leur rage leur mépris leurs rires et leur envie
Les enfants qui s’aiment ne sont là pour personne
Ils sont alleurs bien plus loin que la nuit
Bien plus haut que le jour
Dans l’éblouissante clarté de leur premier amour.

Jacques Prevert

A classic beauty

Adorn yourself, characterize your image, send signals with your body is the most direct way to communicate. Clothes, tattoos, hairstyles, accessories, jewels are writing tools like words, looks, smiles.
She wore a golden magic on which adoring glances, lights, sudden shadows, flashes reflected themselves… Earrings, rings and pendants with classic and strong geometries at the same time, almost transgressive. Perfect, simply beautiful with nothing to add, it make you think of the beauty of the fornarine, of the gioconde, of the veiled women painted five hundred years ago. Dressed in simplicity and fantasy, she moved like a wave of transparent and colored light…

In Venice every gift becomes a memory

…every emotion is stronger, all smiles are as big as the sky above the lagoon. Laughter, looks, thoughts, caresses, kisses… even your grimaces, your games leave marks on the skin, indelible, precious tattoos, jewels that your gestures confuse with the reflections of the water. The rings become circles of light, gothic vitrage the shiny stones, long waves replicate the curves on which your necklaces play, the same ones designed by the hair that conceal and show flashes from your earrings lucky to be so close… so close as to whisper you all the stories of travelers suspended in to the golden city light. Venice transforms the emotions into its unique light… melancholy already fades behind the wet train windows at the end of the liberty bridge…

And then make love.

Life is poetry and our jewels are life and poetry, they slip into the folds of the verses between the caresses of words, into emotions caused by a long necklace on naked skin, in the entanglement of a hand in the hair and a large earrings, light and with soft shapes that won’t leave you anymore. Our rings mark the hands that embrace, squeeze and join warm, the fingers that brush, give colors and holds to hang kisses. Dress your smooth skin only with jewels … Soft necklaces, luminous earrings, large rings and round bangles …

“And then make love.
No sex, just love.
And by this I mean
slow kisses on the mouth, on the neck,
on the belly, on the back,
bites on the lips,
intertwined hands,
and eyes inside eyes
I mean, hugs so tight
to become one thing,
bodies stuck and souls in collision,
caresses on the scratches
clothes off, together with fears,
kisses on our weaknesses,
on the signs of a life
which, until then
had been a little wrong.
I mean, fingers on the bodies,
creating constellations,
smelling scents,
hearts beating together,
breaths traveling
at the same pace.
And then smiles,
true, after some time
they hadn’t been anymore
make love and don’t feel ashamed,
because love is art,
and you’re the masterpieces.”

Alda Merini

Precious clues

The earrings had been left there, on the low table, an oval of black marquinia marble, the white veins like veins under the skin, the light dust powder. A blade of light cut diagonally across the immense, white bed left unmade. lapped and sparkled the blue, transparent and shiny stones to finish on the wall. Emptiness, silence of a sudden abandonment. The only clue was the classic small circles with large stones as eyes on the bedside table. The mirror floated in the dim light still marked by intimate suspended transparencies.
The reflection of her profile was still there, trapped in the crystal between the dark locks, silver circles between the wet fingers of an sea out of season. The slender line of the back bent over the mirror to look for details now mixed by caresses, to try to correct the poured mascara, to remake an lipstick consumed. The blue video still contained them. A caress that brushed aside her hair, her sudden turn, her smiles and looks at the end of an late September afternoon… Silver reflections among the soft gestures. Rainbow Classic blue earrings … unique precious clues of an intimacy still close.

Pittiesisi woman

She loves being herself.
She likes to play and sing, she makes me beehave like stupid and makes me think,
it is certainly more beautiful and stronger that in all poems and all songs written by the man in love.
Pittiesisi woman puts on one earring only… two, three …
seven rings and a long necklace that goes where my fingers trip over her smile and I drown in even though I can swim.
She knows everything and knows nothing just like me. I could never stop talking to her but I look at her and that’s enough for me…
She wears long skirts with the color like the desert sands, big bags to carry all her dreams into, smiles wet with tears and a big ring with a blue quartz.
PittieSisi woman wears the necklace on her wrist twisted five times and her hair gathered with a pencil. When she moves it always seems like dancing, but if she stay still it is the same.
She wears makeup… and she does not, she just put red color on her nails, she takes it off and she always finds herself beautiful.
PittieSisi woman wears her emotions and my jewels she knows how to take them off and change them too …

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