#heismagic

Since he's forgotten, I'm going to remind him.

This man is kind, supportive, soft, intelligent, awkward and an absolute king.

He's an angel and the love of our life.

He's a team player, fiercely protective and so handsome.

He's playful and goofy and loves magic tricks and random trivia.

He's loving and caring and amazing.

And there is no woman he needs--not even JJ--to have that.

I mean it. Dr. Spencer Reid is the greatest thing ever.

Science dictates 

that the heat index 

is how the body perceives temperature.

My body must perceive things 

differently because when 

you make me laugh, 

I know it is not hot

at our lunch table, 

but my face is on fire. 

I know that science 

says that magic becomes 

less amazing the more you 

learn, but the more I learn about you, 

the more I convince myself that you are magic. 

Maybe that’s the child in me, 

unable to believe that people

 are only flesh and blood. 

Only limbs and organs and 

a heartbeat that’ll stop soon. 

No, not you. 

You are a magical being. 

You are a wand with a unicorn 

hair core. 

Something rare and hard 

to hang on to. 

I look at you, 

your golden eyes. 

Your golden hair. 

We accidentally touch 

hands, and I wonder what 

it would be like to hold yours. 

To interlace our fingers, 

vanilla and chocolate, 

to hold them. 

To lick sugar from my fingers. 

You are a sweet guy. 

One of the sweetest. 

You are metaphors and 

similes and something magical 

that not even the most intelligent 

I try to insist 

that he is not like the others. 

He is sweet and kind and 

perceptive and intelligent. 

Awkward and beautiful 

and the embodiment of 

a Golden Snitch that 

wears Nike sneakers 

and blushes bright 

pink when he laughs. 

These words that I 

want to give to him, 

they must be worth something. 

As a poet, I must cement 

him in stanzas. 

His fingers that I wish 

would brush my own. 

His slightly tanned arms 

with the beginnings of 

teenage boy muscle. 

The way he sometimes 

peeks up from those 

violin strings he calls lashes. 

The way he talks and how 

he focuses on me when 

he talks to me. 

Uses his hands to paint 

a masterpiece of himself. 

He bounces on his toes. 

Tells me that his brain 

moves so fast sometimes. 

He can’t keep up. 

I want to brush his cheek 

with my hand. 

I want the fire to ignite in 

his eyes. 

I want to sit next to him, 

to lean into him and 

listen to him talk. 

Instead, I make him 

laugh and try not to