Letters - S.R // Spencer Reid

letters

A/N: The poem in this work belongs to Erin Hanson. This was a one day brain child and I hope you enjoy it.

She hadn't written back. That's all Spencer could think of, the only thought running through his head as his mattress sunk through the bars and pressed into his back. Two letters so far, two weeks between, save the first week. The letters kept her in his memory, the pen dipping into paper the only thing that kept her perfume wound around his soul. When the ink smeared across his too quick fingers, he cursed, closing his unfounded emotions within the confines of the cheap notebook paper.

She hadn't written back. It's not like the letters had been particularly interesting. Spencer had never been an interesting writer, never been the one to capture someone's attention. That was, until her. Until y/n. He had met her at a writer's circle, something his mom had suggested.

"You used to write so often, when you were a little boy." Diana had mused on one of her infrequent good days.

"I was young then, Mom, nothing I wrote was well-written." Spencer had laughed with her, both of them remembering the mother's day haikus that should've never been sent home.

"I'm just saying that the life you've lived deserves to be written down." And so he went, attending a small after hours circle at a local community college. He saw her first. Her hair slung up haphazardly, pens tucked into the tendrils, one shirt sleeve slipping off of her shoulder, and her tongue sticking slightly out her mouth in concentration. She was a girl who could steal your attention from the first glance. One pen slipped out of her hair then, and he had leaned forward, picking it up and extending it to her with a smile.

"Spencer." He had offered, his name a gift to the girl who sat before him. He thought they probably looked like a painting, with the lanky boy kneeling in front of the ethereal girl, one hand extended with a pen obscured by his own spindly fingers.

"y/n." She gave her name right back, grabbing the pen from his hand. And that had been it. That one moment was all it took for Spencer to know he would follow where she went. They had become inseparable, no longer one without the other. They promised each other they'd come every single week, filled notebooks in hand. They stayed far too long after the circle had been dismissed, reading in hushed whispers and bodies so still the motion lights went dim.

Spencer had felt himself start to fall on one particular night, when they had slipped out to her car to read, their voices filling the cramped car and breath fogging the windows. She had written a poem, something soft and fiery, and he remembered thinking it felt like an autobiography and a love song all at once as her sweet and lilting voice filled the air.

I wish that I could hold your heart, Cradle it gently in my hands, But my arms just are not strong enough, To hold what I don 't understand, My eyes have seen a lot of And I thought I'd seen them all, But the way your smile ignites my own, Makes me think there's so much more, These walls around this heart of mine, Have stood dust, But it's as though you've found the gate, That leads right to my trust, I've never really liked my name, But on your lips it sounds so sweet, And your voice is my new favourite song, That's forever on repeat, But even though I feel all this, I can never let you see, Because your heart deserves a whole lot more, Than a broken girl like me.

Her trembling breath paused as she finished on the word 'me'. He felt as though she saw right through him, he turned to glass in her sight. But she was still as opaque as the day he met her. The car had felt awkward then. The air too still, the streetlights outside too bright. They sat in silence, breath held, before y/n had blurted out a quick, "I should get home."