The stillness
of these golden trees,
Autumn's first breath
blowing through their leaves
has me remembering
the way you brush
your fingertips
against my cheek
while I'm lying next to you
on a Saturday morning
after a long night
of play.
And like the breeze
of this mid September evening,
your touch
makes delicate goosebumps rise
on my fair, freckled skin
that not even my
favorite sweater
can cure.
It is truly
all of these sweet,
delicate things
that make you my
favorite season.


Copyright ©  2020 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

ive got sugar
in my breath
and lilies
in my skin
and you have maps
in your bones
to places I've never been.
when 3 am hits
and our voices are mixed
of staggered breaths
and cherry wine
i tell my thoughts
to ghosts in the walls
and your fingers on my lips
while you stumble
to say,
'please,
you put the oceans
to shame
with the way
you move me.'


Copyright ©  2016 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

gods built homes
in the crook of your neck;
i feel them
every time my teeth
graze the surface,
the sky crumbles
down on their sturdy mountains
and somewhere between
your trembling fingers
settling
the earthquakes
in my bones
and lighting candles
with the fire
from your cheeks,
I lived through real
natural disasters
that not even
Poseidon himself
could wash my brain
with enough salt water
to rid the memories of.




Copyright ©  2016 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

it took
the smell
of coffee grounds
and smokey burnt wood
13 days
to finally escape
from the thick fabrics
of my favorite sweatpants
and I promised myself
I'd never let you
burrow away
into the deepest parts
of me
just to keep warm;
23 nights from November
and I'm still digging you out
from underneath my skin.
and that Sunday night
at 12:37 AM;
remnants of
melted rouge kisses
overflowed
from the surface
of the birthmark
on your left shoulder-blade
when I traveled across
the terrains
of every inch
of your back
with my bottom lip;
sweeter
than the sugarcanes in my tea
sending chills
up every bone
in my body
and I knew you
had finally found your home
for the winter.





Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

I'M
JUST
ANOTHER
BIRD
THAT
DIED
-
TRYING
TO
FLY
INTO
YOUR
BEDROOM
WINDOW.

it was the library
down by the corner
where Oak
and Pleasant Street
crossed every night
that I first saw you.
rugged hands
shifted the pages
of a worn-out Catcher in the Rye
when two spent faces
met one another
like gasoline
sparking up a dimmed campfire.
I took you home;
the sun rose;
and somewhere in between,
when the sheets were dancing
and my fingertips
read your skin
as if it were tattooed in brail
was the moment
I became a writer.




Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved