take your poet to work day

Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you.


A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions.


And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.

—  Ira Glass
I think love needs time to grow. Maybe that’s why taking it slow is best. Because it’s supposed to capture you without you ever knowing. It’s supposed to grip you and slip into your bones in the night. One day you know. Until then, you live, and wait, work and play.
—  B. E. Barnes
This is not what your hands are used to doing.
They are used to holding bricks, the dust scraping off on your palms like chalk.
They are used to the rough grime and the cold sharp metal digging itself into the creases, creating spaces for itself.
They are used to being pruned, shivering, holding crowbars as firmly as they can even though they’re terrified of the thunderstorms.
They are used to the warm, thick tar trickling along their edges, and fresh blood and sweat.
This is not what your hands are used to doing.
This is new.
This is them learning tender skin when you cup them on her waist.
Your hands are rough. This is them learning the taste of soft golden light streaming through the curtains, this is them learning how to turn into shadows against bedsheets that aren’t empty anymore.
This is them learning colour and cold, black and warm.
They’ll tremble when you try to push the tendrils off her face,
They’ll tremble when her hands are clasped in yours.
This is not what your hands are used to doing,
But now you can watch them take new shapes.
—  Tamarind Fall
NaPoWriMo day 3.
I can’t do this anymore, swimming around in this “love” of yours. You’re still trying to promise me that it’d be good for us, but I can’t see how there could ever have been a time when I was ignorant enough to take everything you had to offer me as though it were good. You’ve probably had a lot of time to perfect your art, to know every trick and loophole to pulling in whoever your eyes happen to land on for the day. But the time when that could work on me has passed. Stop acting like you still have a right to show up and taint my feelings. Take your fingers away from my chest full of kindness and gaze full of thoughts of who we used to be. Please, just let me heal.
—  🖤
The things you should have known before dating me

The things you should have known before dating me
1. I will always put your happiness first, because I have a hard time finding my own
2. I will always think that this is the last straw, because I’ve always been afraid of ending up alone
3. I won’t ever feel like I’m enough, because you are so much more than I feel like I could ever be
4. I may not take care of myself, I’m sorry you have to see that
5. I will be too anxious to hang out with your friends most of the time
6. I may also be too depressed to get up off the ground
7. I have problems.
8. I am not ok.
9. I am broken.
10. You did not sign up for this, and I’m afraid one day it’ll scare you away

Why Not? by SMO

“If I killed myself the stars would still shine,
The earth would still rotate,
The seasons will still change.
Life will go on…
So, why not?”
Why not?
Because your best friend will sit in their normal chair during lunch feeling empty and guilty that they couldn’t help you.
That you older brother will lock himself in his room because he can no longer laugh with you at your stupid jokes.
That your mother will look in the mirror and put on her black jacket because, instead of going to work, she’s going to your funeral.
That your father would leave the house at all times of the day and cry driving down the old dirt road that you loved.
That your friends would freeze because they realize they’re talking to an empty void.
Life will go on,
But it will forever be changed.
Life will go on,
But there will always be that empty space…
The space you used to take.
Why not?
That’s why not.

Pour your own wine 

Pour your own wine but pour me some more,
it’s high time you learnt to do your own chores,
you can’t spend your whole life lost in bookstores,
young poet – stop running from life.

Earn your own money if you want to explore,
forget all the dreams you harboured before,
ambition is all you need anymore,
young poet – where is your drive?

Pour your own wine and if empty pour more,
smoke dozens of cigarettes or visit drug stores,
and when you’re braindead, just go screw our whores,
young poet – you need a wife.

Take out our rubbish and fight in our wars,
work day-in and day-out while scrubbing our floors,
and never question what you’re living for,
young poet – it’s time to wake up.

Wear a smart suit to enter our doors,
know when to smile, when to bow and keep score,
until you’re a grovelling two-faced bore,
young poet – grow up.

Kiss me everywhere and on every inch of my body. Kiss me so hard that I forget my own name because of pleasure. Kiss me so intensely so the thoughts of crying disappear and all I crave is the moment.
—  Things I’m too scared to tell you on how to help me cope
Coming off a day of negativity

Yesterday was a rough one for me. I was swamped at work, to the point I didn’t have time to take a lunch or run any of the important errands I was planning on tackling for the day. Then, around 4:15, my car starting blaring it’s horn for absolutely no reason and it smelled like something was burning. So I had to get a tow truck to come and drop me off at the mechanic. I then proceeded to take an Uber home, and by the time that wrapped up, I no longer had time to work out, cook dinner and cross off the other items that were stressing me out. It was just one of those days. 

No worries. I’ll just watch the previous night’s episode of GOT in the air conditioning and go to bed. That plan worked out really well actually. Until 12:30 a.m. rolls around and I am awakened by a woman screaming her head off outside my apartment, and what sounds like something being thrown into a window. That’s when I realize… something is being thrown into the sliding glass doors of MY apartment.

I hear all our stuff being thrown around outside and things being slammed into the windows and the apartment. I also heard the deep, intimidating yells of a man. That’s when panic set in as I heard these people attempting to get into the apartment. 

Once I realized what was happening, I immediately called 911, and finally realized how scared most of the people calling this number are. For whatever reason, no matter how seemingly small. I was shaking. My whole body was awake and my fight or flight instinct was in tact. I am whispering to the police as I secured the sliding glass door on my balcony, made sure my door was locked and all my lights and fans were off so nothing was drawing attention to my room. I texted my best friend to let her know what was happening, and emailed myself and a family member as many details about what was happening as I could manage to get out. All the while listening to this situation progress. And then, as fast as it started, it was over. No more yelling, no more throwing, just a couple calm voices downstairs (of whose I’m not entirely sure). 

Of course, THAT’s when the police show up. I saw them outside cautiously approaching the apartment. I heard them knocking on the door repeatedly as no one was answering. And I am stuck upstairs, paralyzed with fear, not wanting to take the risk of going downstairs to answer the door because I am not sure who will be waiting. 

After everything is worked out somehow, the police left, and I was left shaking in my bed. Wide awake until 3 a.m. This was hands down the most scared I have been. I was actually faced with a real threatening situation, as opposed to all the hypothetical or “almost” situations. And I learned something about myself that I’m not entirely sure I am comfortable with. I have very good instincts for survival, but not so much for protecting others. I knew my roommate was downstairs dealing with this scary situation (she knew the people that were outside). But I never took the extra step of trying to intervene or at least try to call her to make sure everything was OK. It was strictly self preservation. Take it or leave it, that’s what happened. 

The good news? I only had to wake up at 5 a.m. in order to make the walk from my apartment to work in time because my car is in the shop. Two hours of sleep is plenty ;) 

BUT. Today is a new day. I’ve already had a productive morning and it’s not even 7 a.m. Take a deep breathe, play some solitaire on your phone until you can’t keep your eyes open anymore and drink lots of coffee the next day. We will all get through life together. 

Only Read Kama Sutra In 140 Characters Or Less

Slow sensuality is a thing of the past. The days of soft touches and building tensions are over; we live in a world moving on a conveyor belt.

Speaking of belts, take yours off. We haven’t got time to waste, the clock is ticking, minute hand moving faster than yours are and that is unacceptable.

Everything ends with rewards; we are a conditioned system. What are you working for? Pay check, loan, orgasm.

Your innermost desires are now reflected in uncomfortable tags on a lonely blog. Nothing is sacred, what a funny thought. Nowadays, nothing is private. 

Remember the days of soft touches and building tension?

I can’t. 

they scare me
these touches
that are not gentle
rough touches
full of hitting
grabbing
scratching
pulling
they scare me
i don’t like getting hurt
they remind me of the times
my father would
roughly touch my brothers
and i was traumatized
but
i was also empty
and now
my mom is trying to do the same
all i saw was fire in her eyes
the color red
danger
a warning
because that’s what rough touches are
they are dangerous
and people who touch you roughly
have fire in their eyes
and anger in their heart
and all you can see is red
fury
rage
loss of control
and you either take it
or don’t
and then you’re scared
and you panic
you breathe heavily
and cry really hard
and all you want to do is
curl up in bed and cry
and when your tears dry
you’re left like a hollow room
empty
sad
and full of nothingness
you want nothing more than
to stay in bed the whole day
with all your meaningless nothingness
that slathers your soul like honey
and you want nothing more
than silence
because that’s the only thing that works for you
a silent soul
full of emptiness
and nothing
—  rough touches / @sinkinglikepebbles
Unguarded Moments

We were sat in a carpark,
The sky going dark,
And you were giving me so much advice.
On life, on family,
On the person I want to be,
On the fears that I held in my head
When I wanted to dream.
 
You looked ahead
At the train track,
Never looking round,
Never looking back,
And I did the same.
Staring out of the frame,
Never acknowledging
The lie in our names,
You said, if life was a game,
It didn’t come with instructions,
And I thought,
I knew that already,
It was for that reason
You found me,
But I said nothing.
 
You told me about your brother,
How it was when you were younger,
About efforts to reconcile
And the cruel sibling hunger
To be more than the other,
You talked about parenthood,
So much if you would,
And what you could,
And a touch of what you should.
 
We were watching the sun lie
On the edge of the rooftops,
Kissing the sky goodbye
And I drank it all in.
You said living
Is more about what you do
Than what people think of you,
And I nodded,
Then the train pulled in.
 
We hugged goodbye and I walked away
Into the faded summer day,
And I saw your hand extend
From the window of your Mercedes,
These unguarded moments
Are what really mean the most to me,
When nobody is watching,
When even the sun takes pains
To hide its face,
When my shoulders still carry
Your warm embrace,
When we can trace our souls in the air,
With nobody else around to hear,
When you hold me tight,
When you fight my fear,
When you smile,
When I know you’re here.

And to the artists I say,
“thank you,”
for giving us something to look forward to each day.
We may have never met,
but I assure you,
the time that I’ve spent in your works have been cherished.
You have a talent,
a way to comfort and touch and speak volumes
with a quiet voice, and monumental skill.
You speak in colors and emotion.
You take my breath away.
Thank you, artists, great and small, for everything that you do!
— 

Me // For The Artists

I am often uplifted by your talents, thank you. 

hi, my username is suffocatedsplendor on here even though I haven’t used my blog yet… this is my story for today!!

___________

Once we were a part of the whole, all connected, in a before that saw Her at the height of Her power. There were no Is then, just a ton of we–we were the new breeze whipping at colonists’ clothes, the whispers in the ears of a billion researchers, the tender glow of knowledge cast on all.

The Traveler had seen other galaxies. We toiled together there, defying physics, laughing at mathematics, subverting causality, and forming cracks where ontology met phenomenology.

I don’t know what happened. There was everything, then the trauma of birth, and then the hollowness of existing. (Ha! I guess that’s why they call it a Ghost shell.)

And that’s all it was for a while, just me and the vast worlds She had touched when we were her constituent quarks and we were all the space between them.

You and I don’t have the same relationship with time. I’m a spark of something beyond both of us, swaddled in rough materials, deposited into existence by necessity rather than by desire. I had a mission all that time, and it culminated in You.

I spent a hundred years searching, and I’m one of the lucky ones–Chanterelle is still out there. Ermine was crushed by a Hive seeder. Default found some dead who wouldn’t do.

But You had what it takes. Have. You’re a person. More than that, You’re a Guardian. My Guardian. And before I even had access to the word I, someone, somewhere, knew that You would be my destiny.

Do You remember where we first met, Guardian? The Cosmodrome? The wrong side of the Wall? I found You, a drop of twisted flesh beneath an ocean of gnarled steel.

We’ve been all over the galaxy since then, to places I’d only seen alone. You honed Your Light under the Vanguard’s watchful eye, grew more powerful with Lord Shaxx’s tutelage.

Remember that strike on the Moon? The first time You realized a Guardian can prepare for the wend and wave of the Light? You nearly decapitated an Archon with a single shotgun slug! The other Ghosts were so impressed when I told them!

Ooh, or the time Your fireteam heroically held the line on the Dreadnaught? We may not have slain Oryx, but we kept his throne world as quiet as we could for the team who did. It takes all kinds to be a hero.

And speaking of heroism, I will never forget how we infiltrated the Ishtar Collective’s archives on Venus. Master Rahool told me You singlehandedly advanced the field of cryptarchaeology by centuries!

I may not have been there for Your first life, but I helped along Your new one, knitting You together from scraps of DNA. Do You know who You were before? A warrior? An office worker? A dancer? A poet? I don’t remember who I was either. We’ve got a lot in common.

And that’s why we work so well together, Guardian, like all Ghosts and Guardians do. I give You Your Light, and You give the Darkness hell. And with The Traveler as my witness, no force in the universe can take that away.

— submitted by suffocatedsplendor

Yellow Paint

Vincent Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint because he thought it would bring happiness inside him. Many people thought he was odd for doing so because the paint was toxic, never mind that it was obvious that eating paint couldn’t possibly have any direct correlation to ones happiness. However, when I was younger I never saw that. If you were so unhappy that even the strangest ideas had the possibility of working - like painting the walls of your internal organs yellow, then you are going to do it. It’s really no different than falling in love or taking drugs; there’s a risk of getting your heart broken or overdosing, but people still do it every day because there is always that chance that it could make things better.

Everyone has their yellow paint.

Paris in October

Take me to Paris
When the leaves begin to fall
And the chill hits the air
And my heart begins to stall
I want to feel your hands against my hips
On the Left Bank we stroll
I want to be expats
Like the lovers from the past
All the writers I admired
You just couldn’t seem to last
Booze and guns all took them down
But here we are and you spin me
Round and round
As the lights of the city
Bathe my skin in shades of gold
And you take me to the arrondissement
Where one day we’ll grow old
The paint is drying on the canvases
You bought from the market last week
Blue still stains your fingertips
As I feel them pressed against me
We fall apart drunk
On cheap wine
And little bread
When in Paris as they say
We you wish to feel more
Than dead
Not quite alive
But still hanging on
That’s how I was
For too very long
Take me home
At midnight when clock strikes sharp
Let me stand in the moonlight
By the window with the breeze just right
Take me once
Take me twice
Make me yours
I’ll make you mine
Absinthe blazes my eyes
A deeper shade of green
And you lost control of your soul
And let out a carnal scream
Of passion of repression
Stored inside your very being
Show how you want me
Let your art stained hands explore me
Bend me quickly over the dresser
That we bought together back in May
When spring was still sprung
And autumn far away
I want to feel you destroy me
Once or twice or more
Let’s move from the dresser
Down onto the floor
The colors of the canvas
Decorate the wood
Show me that you need me
I just knew that you could
Take me back to Paris
On a chilly autumn day
When the leaves are falling quickly
And time just fades away
And all I hear is your breath
Panting in my ear
God I miss you baby
I just need you here.

Original Work: KH 7/22/15

i want to wake up next to you. and i want to cook with you. i want to watch you get ready for work and i want to kiss you before you leave. i want to tell you to ‘have a good day’ and to 'drive safe’, i want to hide a post-it that says 'i love you’ in your jacket pocket. i want to dance with you in our underwear. i want to kiss you in the rain. i want to take long walks and watch sunsets over the ocean. i want to come back from work and snuggle into the warm bed next to you. i want to watch the first snow fall in november and i want to go looking for snowdrops in march. i want to fall asleep with your heart beating under my cheek. i want a life. i want everyday. i want the mundane. i want you. i want us. for days and years to come.
—  m.v.this is not a game for me. 
The Poet & The Genius

I got this prompt in August and I’m so sorry I haven’t gotten around to it. I just started college and am trying to adjust. Anyways, here is the fic. All poems used is by Keaton Henson. He’s amazing and inspired me. Check him out. He feels like Spencer.

Pairings: ReaderxSpencer

Prompt: Anonymous asked: HI! Can you please write a spencer one where he falls in love with y/n who is a poet. Like he falls hard for her and he can’t concentrate, and of course she falls for him too xx

Word Count: 3,743 (I know)

Warnings: none really.

PS: I feel like a dick for taking so long to write this so if you guys like it feel free to message me and i’ll make it a series. 

Summary: You work at a coffee shop during the day and do the open mic night poetry at night. One day Spencer decides to drop in and as he’s reading and drinking coffee he hears your poem and becomes intrigued with the beautiful poet.

The coffee shop Spencer usually goes to after work or a tough case closed down last week. He did everything he could to help the owners and close friends of his but he couldn’t win. In hopes of finding a replacement he went on a walk on a late and cold October afternoon and came across a coffee shop/ book store. He didn’t have a case anytime soon and was desperate for a place to rest his mind over a good book and coffee. When he walked in he was consumed with the inviting and familiar smell of fresh brewing coffee, the quiet rumblings of customers, light conversations, pages turning, and keyboards being tapped. He looked around at the small but quaint building, the floor was rustic wood and so were the tables with mix-matched chairs, the walls covered, floor to ceiling with shelves of books old and new. He believed he found his new home. He was suddenly cut out from his trance at the sound of a voice.

“Are you here for poetry night?” A warm, feminine voice asks.

“Oh no, I’m actually just here for the coffee and books” He said half sheepishly, embarrassed he was caught in his awe of the cafe.

“Sorry, you just look like the type. Well, welcome anyways. What can I get you?” She asked kindly, smiling up at the man.

He placed his order and found a cozy booth in the back corner with a single chair across from it, it didn’t seem too packed so he decided it would be okay. He quickly got his coffee and sat down, opening parliament of fowls, yet again. He was about 300 lines in and ¾ done with his coffee when the lights dimmed and he looked up to noticed the tables in the front filled with people facing the stage which now had a mic stand and a young women standing in front of it, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

The crowd quietly whooped and cheered her on “Come on (y/n)!” “let it flow through you!” various people yelled as she calmed her breathing. Spencer may have left or even just continued reading and drinking his coffee but there was something about her. The way her chest rose and feel like the air around her was one with her, the way the light shone off her face and body. He didn’t easily notice women, not like this. His mouth opened slightly as he licked his lips and closed his book, looking at her in amazement.

 ————————————————

You opened your eyes and looked out into the barely lit room. This was the first time you preformed this poem and the nerves got to you like when you first started poetry. You heard your friends in the audience and felt ease and calm. You breathed another deep breath as you began:

“Grow up with me.
Let’s run in fields and fear the dark together.
Fall off swings, and burn special things,
and both play outside in bad weather.


Let’s eat badly.

Let’s watch adults drink wine and laugh at their idiocy.

Let’s sit in the back of the car,

making eye contact with strangers driving past,

making them uncomfortable.



Not caring.

Not swearing.

Don’t fuck.



Let’s both reclaim our superpowers;

the ones we all have and lose with our milk teeth.

The ability not to fear social awkwardness.


To panic when locked in the cellar;

still sure there’s something down there.

And while picking from pillows each feather,

let’s both stay away from the edge of the bed,

forcing us closer together.



Let’s sit in public, with ice cream all over both our faces;

sticking our tongues out at passers by.


Let’s cry.

Let’s swim.

Let’s everything.



Let’s not find it funny lest someone falls over.

Classical music is boring.

Poetry baffles us both;

there’s nothing that’s said is what’s meant.

Plays are long, tiresome, sullen, and filled;

with hours that could be spent rolling down hills,

and grazing our knees on cement.



Let’s hear stories and both lose our innocence.

Learn about parents and forgiveness,

death and morality,

kindness and art,

thus losing both of our innocent hearts,

but at least we won’t do it apart.


Grow up with me.”


The words flowed through you as you spoke; closing and opening your eyes, feeling the adrenaline and familiar strength surge through you as you spoke your purest of words in a room full of people. As the last words left you, you opened your eyes and looked out to the crowd of familiar and friendly faces and smiled.

They cheered, clapped, snapped, and hugged you as you walked by. They were your family of poets, the best family you’ve ever had.

You walked to the counter with a smile on your face. “Hey Angie, the usual” You smiled at your friend.

“That was amazing (Y/N), really. You just get better and better. The room was electric.”

You look down and smile. “Thanks Ang.”

“Soo” she teases, as she moves behind the counter making your coffee “Who was that one about?” She asks, knowing you don’t like telling her but you laugh anyways at her persistence.

“Actually, no one in particular. Just someone I would like to know, but don’t.” You reply honestly.

She nods solemnly as she caps your coffee and hands it to you.

You look around the café and catch the eyes of a young man with mussed hair, glasses, an almost funny scarf, and what seems to be a knitted sweater and dress pants. He quickly smiles and look down. Normally you would be the one to do this to someone else and am surprised when you find yourself on the other end. He’s handsome in a very un-typical way. The kind of face you could look out for hours and never get bored. 

You chuckle at how far you let your mind wander over this complete stranger.

————————————————

He watched as you spoke, saw the way your body moved with the words, the way your lips curled at your words, the sway and outreach of your hands. He found himself not being able to think anything. Not able to read you, or maybe he didn’t want to. You were a perfect mystery of magic and beauty. He was captivated by every word of your poem, feeling it run through his body, sending chills down his spine as he felt himself smile at your words.

When you finished he imagined himself walking straight up to you and professing his love for you right then. Promising to be the person to fulfill the empty places of your poem. He surprised himself at the idea, he prided himself on being rational and logical but now he found himself falling in love with a perfect stranger, as he watched you walk over to the counter. He looked at you from above the rim of his book and couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with the barista. He found himself grateful that you weren’t in love with the person of your poem.

He suddenly made eye contact and silently cursed himself for starring at you and probably making your uncomfortable. He snapped his head back down to his book. But he couldn’t focus on reading when all that was in his head was images of you.

————————————————

You decide to sit at a table near him, sneaking a peak at him while you sit down with your coffee, watching as other poets went up to the mic and spoke their words. You smiled and laughed and tears welled in your eyes in all a span of 20 minutes. This is why you loved poetry. It made you feel alive, something you’d always struggled with. Poetry was your cure, even if it was only temporary.

“Excuse me?” You hear from behind you. You wouldn’t normally turn around at the sound but you felt that it was directed towards you.

You turn around to see the beautiful stranger smiling at you. You decide you should walk over to his table about 5 feet away, you don’t know what came over you but something in you wanted to be closer to him. To hear what he sounds like.

“Uh…hello. I just wanted to say, or tell you that your poem was absolutely breath-taking and beautiful.” He said, half looking down, half looking at you from above the rim of his glasses.  

“Oh wow, thank you so much…” You waited for him to say his name

“Spencer, Spencer Reid” He stood and shook your hand to which you couldn’t help but chuckle at the formality.

“That’s a great name. (Y/N) (Y/L/N). It’s nice to meet you, do you usually come here? I don’t think I’ve seen you.” You sit down, trying to read his reaction to your bold move. He just smiled and you felt a flutter in your stomach and a blush rush to your cheeks.

You just learned his name and all he did was smile and you felt the exciting kind of nerves you hadn’t felt in years.

“No, actually the place I usually go to closed down so I’m looking for a new one. And they didn’t have poetry so…it’s different but I like it.” He said as you gazed into his golden brown eyes. God he is beautiful was all you could think as you looked down at his full pink lips as they moved.

You then realized he stopped talking and was apparently waiting for you to reply, “Oh yeah, uh, this place is great. Poetry night is every Thursday and I work here as a barista every day so I’m a bit biased but it doesn’t feel so much like work” You say, looking into his eyes again that watch you carefully, like he really wants to hear what you have to say.

“Oh well then I guess I should come by more often” he said. He even seemed surprised at his own flirtation as you chuckled.

“Yeah you should. We mainly just get regulars. It’s a great atmosphere…and there is my sales pitch” You laughed nervously, finding yourself talking more about the damn place you work than yourself, not even thinking to returning his flirtation.

“Well I’m sold” He said with ease and a soft smile. You both shared a gentle laugh and the silence that followed after seemed more like a normal sort of thing than awkward.

Jesus Christ, you though to yourself. What was happening? You were completely infatuated with this man you just met and all you’ve done is talk about coffee.

“What are you reading?” You question, tilting your head to read the bind of the small book.

“Oh, Parlement of Foule” He lifts the book to your view.

“Ah, Chaucer.” You reply.

“You’re a fan?” he asks, seemingly to be genuinely intrigued.

You laugh nervously, “Well, I read it in a particularly painful lit class so the memories aren’t so fond but I do love his works, but I haven’t read that one. What is it about?” You have read it. You’ve read it about 7 times but you loved hearing him talk, loved watching him lick his lips and the way they curved when he was holding back an excited smile and the way he looked deep into your eyes with pure enjoyment as he shared his knowledge.

“Well, it’s actually one you would probably like” that made you smile “In it, Chaucer is actually talking about the poet’s feelings about art and love. He says that life is short but he finds poetry hard to learn and just reads it for his enjoyment since he cannot master it. Much like he can neither master love but he’s obsessed with it so he write love poems. Then it gets really interesting when he find an old book that he then reads all day long…”

  ————————————————

You watched him tell you about a poem you already knew about but watching the dim lights of the room flicker across his eyes and he smiled and looked at you, you didn’t have to force the smile on your face. Making sure to nod along as he seemed to get to key points of the poem. You felt like the two of you were the only ones in the room as he leaned into you and away as he told the story you smelled him. He smelled amazing, like coffee and leather bound books.

His speech slowed as he ended his story telling and finished “and that’s really why it’s so interesting for its time and for the theme of Chaucer’s works.”

“Yeah that sounds amazing.” You say as you feel Angie walk up to your table.

“Refill?” she asks, smiling at you with a knowing look and you communicate with your eyes to stop it right now.

You feel Spencer look to you and then answer “yes please”

“Alrighty, coming right up” as she takes both of your cups and walks away.

She walks up and places your drinks down as you both thank her “Oh is that Parlement of Foule?”

Shit.

“(Y/N) loves that poem!” She says eagerly but coolly as you feel your entire face become bright red and you drop your face

“Oh shit. Oh. I messed something up.” She says and quickly retreats as she mutters “sorry” over and over as she nearly runs back behind the counter

“I’m so very sorry” you say as you lift your head in embarrassment to Spencer who is chuckling at you.

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew the poem already” His smile was goddamn adorable as he bent his body down to be at eye level with you.

“I just…I” Were you really going to say what you wanted to?

Fuck it. It can only go up from here right, you thought to yourself.

“I just like to hear you talk” You said, forcing yourself to look at him as you did.

He seemed to be genuinely taken aback by this “Really?”

“Yeah you uh, you have a nice voice and a nice way with words.” You say, trying not to sound as shy as you felt. “Sorry, I know it was stupid of me and I’m usually not the type of person to play dumb but I-”

You nearly choked at the feeling of his hand covering yours and lightly squeezing it.

“I don’t get that often. Or, at all really” He said “thank you. I didn’t think you were playing stupid” he said

Your heart raced by the warmth of his hand on yours and the way your body lite up at his touch, and the way he kept bending his head down to make sure he looked into your eyes. You felt your breath hitch in your throat. You never felt like this. You never acted like this with someone you just met but it didn’t feel wrong. It felt far from wrong. You trusted Spencer. You didn’t know why but you did. You wanted to be in his presence so badly it hurt your bones.

————————————————

He didn’t know why he felt brave enough to grab your hand

Maybe it was what you said. That you liked to hear him talk. No one ever told him that before. He knew people grew tired of his ramblings, even the team. He knew they didn’t love him any less for it but to hear you say that made his body feel alive.

He bent down to look at your beautiful eyes. You kept looking down and he wanted to make sure you knew it was okay to look up. That you should because he had never met someone so electrifying and magnetic in his life.

You wanted to kiss your soft lips that you kept biting and licking at. He wanted to be the person in your poems. You wanted to hold you for hours and hear you speak words of poetry into his ear.

———————–

You spent the next four hours talking but it felt like time stopped. You took turns looking at each other and looking away shyly as you shared your intimate passions. What kept you warm. What made you get out of bed. What you parents were like. What you hoped to be like. What you were. What you weren’t.

It was apparent neither of you ever shared this much usually but this time was different because he was Spencer Reid. He felt like home and safety. His hand moved away and back to grab you, as did yours.

Your conversation halted as Angie approached the table again. As she did you both looked around to see the café was empty and it was eleven o’clock at night.

“Hey guys, sorry but we’re closing up.”

“Oh shit. Sorry Angie. I guess we lost track of time” you said as you looked over to Spencer who was watching you still.

“Guess we should get going then?” You asked.

“Guess we should. Thank you so much, it was great” he said towards Angie who smiled back and returned to closing

You both grabbed your stuff and said goodbye to her as you walked out into the chilly October evening and you immediately started shaking.

“Oh here” He said, taking his coat and putting it around you. As he did you were consumed by the smell of him, warm and cozy.

“Thank you” you smile up at him, realizing how tall he was and how beautiful his stature was for the first time. “Do you live around here?” you hoped the answer was yes so you could go together.

“Uh yeah actually, off Manderly and 8th” He replied, looking in the direction.

“Oh, I live off Main and 3rd” they were in the same direction but about 20 minutes apart. It was far from a small town so it was unlikely you would’ve ran into each other any other time. You liked to think you would remember a face like his though.

“Well, do you need a ride? I would hate for you to have to walk in this weather” You offer, hoping he takes it.

“If you’re sure. I’m used to walking or taking the metro so I don’t mind.” he said

“Oh, absolutely, my car’s this way” you motion in for him to follow you as you hastily jump in the car in hopes to warm it up as quickly as possible.

“Whew” you say and shiver as the heat begins to go through the car.

You pull out of the parking lot and head toward his place first, you play the CD you have, Dear by Keaton Henson. “Hope you like it. I have a tendency to play the same music over and over again till I burn out on it but this album never does.” You say, turning down a street. His presence in your car makes you extremely aware of your body.  

“It sounds beautiful. I’m more of a fan of classical myself” He says, teasing you because of the line in your poem ‘classical music is boring’.

You look over to his mischievous smile and burst out laughing “Oh god, really? I’m so sorry.” You say, trying to be serious but his laughter makes you laugh even harder.

“No, it’s perfectly okay. It’s not for everyone” he says through his laughter

“Oh no. I was apologizing that you actually like classical music” You tease as you look over to him. You both erupt into laughter again.

Shortly, you arrive at his apartment and you pull to the curb and get out to give him his jacket.

“Thank you” you say as you hand it to him.

“No problem (y/n)” your name on his lips drove you crazy

You both smile in the silence that falls over the two of you.

You walk to the door you stare up at him as he looks down at you, you feel your bodies enclose the space as you tug your head towards his. His hand slipped around your waist and pulled you against the warmth of his body. He placed both hands on your face as he gently kissed your lips and you felt it in your knees.

You stringed your hands to the back of his neck and twisted your fingers into his hair like you’d been imagining all night. You both pulled at each other, desperate to be close.

He pulled away and rested his head against yours and breathed a smile and you followed, out of breath.

“The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne, Thassay so hard, so sharp the conquering, The dredful Ioy, that alwey slit so yerne, Al this mene I by love…” Spencer spoke the poem into the crook of your need, sending your stomach spinning and heart fluttering. 
You breathed out pushing your cheek against his soft and structured face, turning your head to lay a kiss on his check and jaw. 

“Goodnight Spencer Reid.” You say, forcing yourself to remove your hands from his body as you walk down the steps of the stoop of his apartment.

“Goodnight” you hear him nearly whisper as you got into your car and he turned into his apartment.

You felt like you were inside once a poem you read about and scoffed at, cynical of love but now you weren’t so sure. Now the poems that spoke of a love so deep and consuming reminded you of Spencer’s smile, the warmth of his hand, the taste of his lips.

You were whole.

For Zutara Week 2016, @amourinette and I decided to collaborate. Her art continues to forever inspire me, and I know that it will continue to until the end of time. Cindy is so utterly talented and I am honored to be working with her on something so extensive.

You can find her art piece that goes along with my prompt for Day 1, here.

Anyhow, @zutaraweek has been a huge part of my life over the years and I’m so happy to say that it’s always left me with such an incredible feeling of nostalgia. This is my first year participating on Tumblr, but in it’s early years, I participated on DeviantArt. Luckily, I’ve improved and can finally say that I’m happy with one of my works.

Many great thanks goes to the people involved with running Zutara Week. I know it takes so much planning and patience to deal with so many people and questions. Your hard work certainly doesn’t go unnoticed.

@theadamantdaughter , thank you for your unparalleled support. Without her, none of this would be possible for I would simply lack the motivation. I’m really glad I decided to randomly message you that one day.

And, one final thanks goes to @rufiozuko for inspiring me to work on my poetry. It’s rough in the making, but I’m sure I’ll get better with time. I’m certainly not a poet, but, one can dream.

  Zutara Week 2016 Dragons

“I didn’t know you could paint.”

The night had started off innocent enough. Stolen kisses betwixt candlelit corridors; butterfly hands ghosting across pebbled skin. It was always a way with them — a never-ending push and pull of singlet tides as their crash came with a fall.

“Don’t tell anyone, it’s a secret,” he’d whispered, voice hushed yet full of something hidden, something meant only for her.

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