When The Muse Has an Accent

A love letter to distraction — written in Italian light.

It happens every time.

I’m mid-sentence, surrounded by coffee cups, drafts, the hum of creation — and then, there he is. Davide. The kind of man who doesn’t need to say a word; the kind of name that already sounds like a song. One glance, one video, and the world slows down as if my Wi-Fi suddenly remembered what desire feels like.

His smile? Mediterranean. His timing? Impeccable.

Always arriving when I’m busy becoming the woman I write about

Why is The Question?

I tell myself it’s harmless — just a break, a tiny intermission between paragraphs.

But inspiration is never harmless. Beauty disrupts, it rearranges priorities, it whispers, “Remember why you love aesthetics in the first place.”

Maybe that’s what Davide does to me. He reminds me that art was never meant to be contained. Sometimes it appears in brushstrokes. Sometimes in bone structure.

The Italian word “ispirazione” sounds softer than “inspiration,” doesn’t it?

It rolls off the tongue like a secret you shouldn’t say too loud.

But Now?

I scroll, I sigh, I smile — then I return to my writing.

Because every Bacialato woman knows that muse and mission coexist.

Gelato would melt in the moment.

Baciata would turn it into art.

And me? I’m fluent in both.

Closing Frame

So here’s to Davide — and every distraction dressed as destiny.

To the faces that make us pause mid-dream, the voices that turn language into rhythm.

Because sometimes, all a woman needs to reignite her creativity… is an accent.