in the beginning there are stockings

seamed or unseamed, doing the talking

letting the thigh highs laced with bows

speak to you my lover's throes.

would I not mourn and love the best

the nights of lingerie among the rest

along the line, the soft things tossed

and in the end, the softness lost.

but I can still remember when

you loved me back before the then

I can slide my fingers up and down

black silk stockings on the ground.

a rose is born, it lives and dies

and so like love which seems to thrive

the most when at it's brilliant peak

then petals fail and silence speaks.

I miss the softness of your touch

and in the voice I loved so much,

my black stockings I wore most

now mere silk whispers of a ghost.

I even miss the thorny cuts

the stings, the blood, the awesome lust

for what love is, can never be

without the passion of you and me.

28May09