when I'm high
off the scents of
October night air
and smokey burnt wood
on your shirt
I'll dress up for you,
all satin
and buttons
and lace.
when I'm drunk
from one too many
Gin & Tonics
with purple-spotted moons
stamped under my eyes
and the apples of my cheeks
stained with paths
of saltwater
I'll dress down for you,
all freckles
and scars
and skin.




Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

you've always been my
favorite book
never difficult to pick from the shelf
and breeze through.
I have read you
over
and over
one thousand times
and I find things
with each and every read
that I never discovered
in the last.
all of the genres
combined within you;
mystery,
romance,
comedy;
an endless movie
running through my head
with you as the lead role
and I couldn't imagine a life
without you being written
into it.




Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

Mommy always said
I had expensive taste
I guess that's why
your champagne skin
left me drunk
with the empty bottle dangling from my limp fingers.
I must ask,
do you think of me still?
Cover your lips with
honey
before you answer;
sugarcoat it as best you can.
43
tiring days later
and I have yet to master
being able to say your name
under a relaxed jaw.
I wonder if this will get
any easier
to accept; until then,
cheers
to those intoxicating bubbles
soaking up
in your bones' winter quilt.
I'll leave you a glass on the table.



Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

you stand tall
facing the works of art,
Monet and
Renoir and
Van Gogh
all slowly
consuming your thoughts
color by color,
brushstroke by brushstroke
and you have
the nerve
to ask me
to point towards my favorite
masterpiece;
you pessimist,
you train wreck,
it's always been you.



Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

they say I'm
a joke
and I wish you would've
stuck around
to hear the punchline.



Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

bask in the
11 PM
humid June air
with me,
our skin
soaking up the ivories
of Luna's glow
and the stars
sinking into your pores,
leaving my hands
scorched
from their touch.
silver clouds
rising in the sky
holding back their tears,
husky grumbles of thunder
in the distance;
these storms
are nothing,
compared to the things
you start in me.




Copyright ©  2015 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

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

I hate to break this
to you, my dear
but you are no bigger
than the dust
on my bathroom floor
and you say you
still care, but I know
you always
wanted her more.*



Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

aromas
of fresh linen, and
your buttermilk skin
pull me aside
from my late-night talk with the moon;
she needs her sleep,
you say;
and it's time for breakfast.



Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

my tongue is made
of olive vines,
wrapping itself around words
I am unable to describe.

pores made of gold
kingdoms under your rule;
finding life in the stars,
while I still need a stepping stool.



Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

your mouth
was a dingy cot
for your old friend
Jack Daniels
to rest
when the air was frosty
and he had nowhere
to go
for the night.
you called it fun,
I called you susceptible;
nevertheless
I always did adore
your caring nature.



Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

if you're traveling
on the old country road,
remember me
sitting on the worn out passenger seat
with the beer stains on my collar
and dirt under my nails.
the time for apologies is up
and now I simply long for the
strawberries
nestled up in the skin of your neck
to clash with my briny lips,
and for the six letters of my name to
be the last
rolling off of your tongue for the night.
call me your darling, or
call me a nightmare;
either way,
I'm still left in your mouth
aren't I?



Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

tell me how it felt to
watch her put her lips on another.
tell me how it felt to
fall on your knees, and
pray to God
half sober
with the kitchen light on.
tell me how it felt to
wake up the next afternoon
with beer stains on your collar
and ash in your teeth.
tell me how it felt to
stack those bricks around your bones and fight anyone
who got too close.
tell me how it felt
when you met me;
face softened, jaw unclenched,
pulse steady.
tell me how it felt
when you let me in,
how the fires felt
burning away every piece of armor shielding your weaknesses
and you were without water
to put it out.
tell me how it felt to
let me go;
did it leave you scorched in the flesh
and heavy in the head?

my apologies,
that was me.





Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

an old melody
left hanging
long after the silent noise
swallows the air whole.
the warmth
of pomegranate tea
trickling downward
in an empty stomach.
the wrinkles on cold knuckles,
fresh linen sheets,
honey down my throat.
battle scars;
burgundy lightning striking it's way
up boney knees
from tumbling so **** hard
over the cracked sidewalk.
rain on Sunday.
flakes of frost
emerging from the clouds
finding their way to our scalps;
standing outside, pushed against
fuzzy fabrics
that rest over your chest
saying, 'oh, please
I'm in love
I'm in love.'

Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

even the moon
slumps its shoulders
in a sort of
deep despair
from your absence.





Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

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

to think just
118
days ago
I was running miles
through your bedroom eyes
feeling myself
burn up
in your atmosphere
and now
I seem to have forgotten
the taste of those
four letters
of your name
steaming off of my tongue;
those fires you lit
in me
weren't so strong
after all.



Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

you turned me into ashes;
                     *I'm turning you into poetry.



Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

I can't honestly say
what I'm trying to accomplish
by spelling out
your name
while bent over the bathroom sink;
short, hot breaths
fogging up the mirror
and the skin around my knuckles
stretching, sparking up bright
white stars
under the chapped surface.
The truth is,
I am running on empty
and broke from spending
all of my sense on you;
one thing
no amount of money
could buy me back.



Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

fleece blankets
live untouched
in the linen closet
despite the winter's brutal cold;
I wrapped myself up
in you
instead.



Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

I am quite a long
ways away
from hearing the husky
grumble
of your laugh;
it would have to travel
over & under
the air
long enough to see twelve moons
in order to reach me;
and I believe,
much like you and I
it has burned out.



Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

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