As she tastes the salt on her lips, a widow cannot but cry

but what better place to cool down tears, than a cold lover's lap?

The Widow is a visual feast of raw emotions, too delicate to be revealed, too urgent to be hidden. 

While faint dialogues transform into perished sexuality, barren reality stifles irrefutable desires -a foolish reverie of what is not. 

From a grave that is yet to be dug, inaudible whispers emerge -her parched lips, ready to burst. 

As the widow surrenders to the blackened sea, we cannot but partake... our hands comfortably tied.

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