A single stocking on the floor was all that was left.
A stocking that had once covered a long, supple leg.
A stocking that had once been almost hidden by a black-as-night velvet dress,
and had once slipped into an elegant, delicate heel, wrapped in slender straps.
A stocking that had run along my calf under the table, that had sent shivers through every inch of my skin.
A stocking that she’d begged me not to rip even as my nails had raked long red lines down her back.
A stocking I’d been jealous of as I watched her carefully roll it down her thigh, calf, and impossibly perfect heel and toes.
A stocking she’d run over my lips, nose, eyelids.
A stocking that had blurred and colored her features as it moved across my eyes, making her unearthly, magical, other-worldly.
A stocking that still bore the lipstick of a kiss shared through, her’s and mine.
A stocking steeped in her scent.
As I tie it around my neck, a choker or collar, I can’t stop wishing I could remember her name.
Come back.
You left this.