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Three Fictions, by Emily Cementina

No Such Thing

Bring me back chapped lips, skin that flakes at your temples, and thighs scooped out on the sides. We will separate the artifacts from your body, lay them on the apartment floor, and take photographs to memorialize the ways you changed. 


I want to smell Mexico in your arm hairs.

I fall in love with your bed sheets while you are away. I kiss the fabric and hope the fibers become human cells and grow into you. I wear your t-shirts for dresses, sit in your chair, and wonder what you do with the light when it hits the wall in squares. Shuffling yellows. Slides stacked and filed in your desk drawers.

Bring me tumbleweed, too, I say when you call.

Your voice is two-dollar beer looping across the country. 

I organize your books and try to reconstruct your hands from fingerprints left on the pages. Microscopic rings lifted and layered in my palms. I move dust to make room for the tumbleweed and hide the piles in your cactus pots.

Bring me back air inhaled from other states. The entire Texas sky transmitted through your tongue.

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