Shadow Writer

Mostly, I write about men.
The rest is just filler.


Uncompromisingly nsfw.

Copyright 2012-2014

Don’t tell me about
your blood moon,
I have no use for those 
who would save the sky
for special occasions.

I hate the Red Sox, but I love Boston.
#Bostonstrong # Oneyearlater

Guilty pleasure.

The sea, and me.

There’s a small window of time in spring when the weather is warm enough, but the starting gun hasn’t been fired yet for those who think the ocean only exists between Memorial and Labor days, and then mysteriously dries up again until the following year.

This is the time I love the most, the time I live for, when the sand is still pristine and I only have to share the beach with a few diehards and dog lovers, who will unobtrusively walk or run or toss sticks into the surf to be returned gleefully by their furry, wet companions.

These days at the shore, during this small window of time before the tourist chatter nearly obliterates the roar of crashing waves, are indescribably precious to me. Yet, as May looms in the not too distant future, I can feel a distinct melancholy settling in, because soon I will have to share this place with the rest of you.

For now though, and for a dwindling few weeks going forward, this is my place. My beach.

For now it is just the sea, and me.

portersnotebook:

I Sailed to You
Remember when they thought the moon would swallow the sea and the winds would wear flat the earth? We met that summer over boardwalk hotdogs and soda from the fountain, the counter boy’s hat like a small, white boat.
They told us it was all going to change.
We didn’t believe anything could change the salt air and hot mustard.
I told you late one night, as we lay entwined on the porch during a rare summer drizzle, that if the seas went away and the land was worn flat that I would sail to you anyway.
You looked at me as if I was crazy. You should have remembered the only crazy I’ve ever been is for you.
Bicycle wheels and tattered sailcloth filched from my uncle’s garage, fruit crate slats and old boards from the deck, clothesline for rigging.
I raised the sails, caught the wind and I’ll never forget your smile when I sailed up the street to your house. You got in behind me and we went up and down the street in lazy curves. I tried to tack into the wind like I’d read about and we convinced ourselves that it worked. We knew that the moon could never swallow the sea and the wind could never wear flat the earth. Everything would be just as it was, forever.
I wanted to kiss you then, but I was afraid. It was daylight after all.
 Photo credit: Sail Wagon, Brooklyn. between ca. 1910 and ca. 1915, via The Library of Congress.

I want a sail wagon. Actually, I want all of this.

portersnotebook:

I Sailed to You

Remember when they thought the moon would swallow the sea and the winds would wear flat the earth? We met that summer over boardwalk hotdogs and soda from the fountain, the counter boy’s hat like a small, white boat.

They told us it was all going to change.

We didn’t believe anything could change the salt air and hot mustard.

I told you late one night, as we lay entwined on the porch during a rare summer drizzle, that if the seas went away and the land was worn flat that I would sail to you anyway.

You looked at me as if I was crazy. You should have remembered the only crazy I’ve ever been is for you.

Bicycle wheels and tattered sailcloth filched from my uncle’s garage, fruit crate slats and old boards from the deck, clothesline for rigging.

I raised the sails, caught the wind and I’ll never forget your smile when I sailed up the street to your house. You got in behind me and we went up and down the street in lazy curves. I tried to tack into the wind like I’d read about and we convinced ourselves that it worked. We knew that the moon could never swallow the sea and the wind could never wear flat the earth. Everything would be just as it was, forever.

I wanted to kiss you then, but I was afraid. It was daylight after all.


Photo credit:
Sail Wagon, Brooklyn. between ca. 1910 and ca. 1915, via The Library of Congress.

I want a sail wagon. Actually, I want all of this.

Becoming.

At twenty seven
I don’t know
who I am
just yet.

But I know
who I’m not,
and I guess that
counts for something.

"Nail me to you. I will ride you like a nightmare."

— Jeanette Winterson, Written On The Body 

(Source: rabbitinthemoon, via sonofthelandlockedmariner)

Distance XXXIV.

Sometimes I’ll check the weather where you are, or count backwards three hours and wonder if you’re having breakfast while I’m having lunch. I may be grasping at straws, but it’s the only way I know how to bring you closer, even as we grow farther apart.

gnodi:

Let me know if you want me.

Like I want you.

Today would have been the first of a series of 5Ks that I had planned to run in preparation for a series of 10s and half’s and ultimately, my lofty goal of running the New York City marathon in the fall of 2015.

Meniscus surgery has wiped every one of those events off my calendar, and now my focus is solely on building back strength and endurance.

The weather gods were on my side today for my first beach run of the season, which went splendidly. I am sunburned and satisfied, and feeling more myself than I have in months.

Your body is your best friend. Love it, respect it, listen to it, and learn how to forgive it, even when it fucks up all of your plans.

Haunted.

I am in love
with an apparition, 
a dream in the
shape of a person, 
who awakens me
with a phantom kiss, 
then disappears
into the morning mist.

(Source: letmedothis, via lobstercakes)

I love airports.

The perpetual comings and goings. The hoards of people moving, moving, moving, speaking in foreign tongues or regional accents or not speaking at all. Even those who sit and wait are in motion. Sipping out of styrofoam cups, tapping on their phones, checking their watches, eyes darting from here to there. Waiting, waiting, waiting. For something. Someone.

I saw a man holding a bouquet of roses and baby’s breath, tied with a big pink bow. I wondered if he was waiting for her, if when he saw her he would lift her off her feet and spin her around, and say Oh, how I’ve missed you. I wondered if she would be beautiful, and if they would kiss all the way home in the back of a cab. I wondered if he would take her to lunch and then make love to her in her sunny bedroom, reacquainting himself with the texture of her skin.

I wanted so much to see their reunion but I blinked and he was gone, lost to me forever, like seaglass going out with the tide.

And as I paced the floor in anticipation of my friend’s arrival, I thought about how the things that I love most are the things that represent motion, like airplanes and ocean tides and meaningful relationships. And I realized why I run.

Because anything is better than standing still.

azraelwrites:

To feel everything deeply does not make a person weak. To the contrary—to do so, and to survive—that is a demonstration of inestimable strength.

http://beinah.tumblr.com/post/82284402637/blankpagesandinvisibleink-i-dont-know-how-long

beinah:

blankpagesandinvisibleink:

i don’t know
how long i stood
there in the shower
watching water
spill from my nipples
like twin waterfalls.

i just know i miss you.

Funny how one and a half years later (after I reblogged this first) I still find myself in that same situation, in that…

Yup, this was mine (back when I thought I was ee cummings ;p). That anything I write resonates with anybody, ever, let alone can be called up a year and a half later as releveant to their lives, is so magical to me. xo