Littoral

me and pépère.   his hand behind my head,   making ears.   mine holding a notepad   like i already knew i’d need one.

we didn’t match.   not in skin.   not in story.   but for a moment,   we belonged to the same living room.

transracial adoption doesn’t leave space   for moments like this.   too tender.   too confusing.   too real.

but this was family.   not the kind they put in pamphlets—   the kind you survive through.

summer 2020.   a balcony,   a clothesline,   and the masks we wore like breath.

orange. black. floral.   each one a gesture,   a compromise,   a signal.

there was nothing romantic about it—   but still,   they dried in the sun   like any other laundry.

a new kind of intimacy:   fabric, filtered air,   what we held between us   and what we didn’t.