Mrs. Holmes -Week #31 of the Poetry Dice Challenge-(ys)

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When I came home after my self imposed exile it was all as I had left it. His energy layered on every object, resurrecting memories of the perfect symmetry that was once us. His violin that would cry nevermore under his graceful fingers, his pipe now cold as the preverbal witches tit, were symbols of a life worth living despite my devastation. The staff had been advised to maintain and keep up appearances. They were like the Illuminati, they operated under the radar, invisible to most. The house had been kept clean, the clocks wound as life uncoiled slowly. 10 years had passed since I had burnt all the bridges and fled. Many would have thought my grief would now be water under it, or at least dissipated into puddles I would just occasionally step in. If they had possessed just a fraction of his observational skills they would have discovered the subtle clues left in the corners of my mouth and iridescent shadows under my eyes.

After restless Sleep I wandered past the hearth fire of our kitchen and the snoring cook who never made it to her bed. As I opened the door to our garden the sounds of leaves greeted me, like music, a fanfare to proclaim my return. It was here that I grew my flowers calming my mercurial nature in the earth I shifted, in hopes to coax beauty out of every seed. There at the east wall, under the apple tree he would spend hours tending to his bees the only other ladies I ever had to share his attention with. Not that it would have bothered me if he had, had others, jealousy was never one of my vices. I loved my own freedom to much to ever bind another under such tyranny. Sometimes we would be there for hours without speaking, the silence heavy with a love that needed no chains or affirmations. Just like the trees that blossom in the Spring, we thrived in each others company. The foundation of our union was built on honesty and the wisdom to let each other breath in solitude if we should feel the need, without fear to hurt or offend. The algorithm was the reason for our success, we truly cherished and respected each other. There was no need for games unless we felt like playing.

Granted our beginnings where less harmonious. It began as a competition of sorts, a duel of wit and and ingenuity, but it soon became a consuming affliction. He was known for his ventures into addiction, yet it always seemed as if he could just peel it of like swan skin when he had satiated his taste for decadence. I however seemed an obsession that was hard if not impossible for him to shake and to my surprise for me he was the same. What followed were a few years of complex choreographed denial. We staged our own demise so many times we had become mythological figures well within our lifetime. In cycles of resurrection our paths would cross and for periods we would unite under the mantle of common interest, or my need to playfully lead him into a labyrinth of situations in which we tested our metal on each other.

You may ask yourself how I ever made the transition from “the Woman” to "His Woman" and what had caused it, but I fear there really is no clear answer. I had been transporting confidential papers over the border for a client when on my way back a violent storm arose. I had decided to seek shelter at a nearby inn as the the wind bested a million banshees and the rain had me on the lookout for the ark. On my arrival he was there waiting, he had come to bid my assistance in a delicate matter and I was prepared to give it. After a short conversation, over a mediocre meal, we both retired for the evening. In the early morning hours I awoke. The world outside was raging ripping trees in infinite fury, yet inside me there was complete calm. To this day I am not sure what compelled me to slip out of my sheets and go to the door, but when I opened it he was there waiting. As his lips touched mine my need for him electrified my senses sending lighting bolts down my spine. There in the tempest all defences burned to ash, the walls and chasms we had constructed so carefully obliterated in one moment of truth. It is there that he proved my theory, that no matter the cool exterior no man of such exceptional intelligence and mind could ever be without passion, and it was in that bed that a love was born that in its perfection made even the Gods weep bitter tears of longing.

Sometimes it feels like it was only yesterday and I catch myself searching for the face my rational mind knows I will never see again. What would I give to have just one more moment… I began to question my very sanity cursing the urge that brought me back to our home. It came the next morning wrapped in blue paper, brought by a boy who had received a sixpence to deliver it. This key was a mystery to me. Where did it come from? what was it for? Why was it sent to me. The weight of the intrigue far outweighed the mass of the smooth little key itself. It was delicate in design, to large for a diary, to small for a desk or door. I obsessed. Researched, detected, followed hidden pointers, followed the signs and movements of the grape vine. It lead me to the offices of a solicitor who handed me a letter in HIS sure hand. Just like his love, the message was encoded, indecipherable to those who never saw beyond his guises. With the letter came a Indian lockbox for which I knew I had the key. I thanked the man taking my leave with both letter and box.

At the house on our bench under the apple tree of our garden I sat. Time flowing by me as the shadows became longer and a red streaked sky announced the pending arrival of night. I had sat there for hours, letter in hands and box neatly tucked beside me. When courage finally fell in place I opened his note written in our private cypher. It was brief to the point as was his way. “One last adventure my dear Irene” it read, I laid it aside gently as if I had tried to preserve its sleep and reached for the key in my pocket to open the box. It slipped in its lock perfectly, what I found inside had joy and pain colliding inside my shaking frame. The first was the photograph I had left for him at our first encounter so many years ago, the second a leather bound journal filled with writing. The first line read “Her scent fragranced the room like the melody of a Spanish Guitar.” the tone, the content was completely unexpected, and as I read on I realised that these pages where filled with poems that he had written for me. Years and years of work of exceptional beauty and a tenderness that I had experienced but that had never been spoken out loud. This man, my man, who was often described as perfect reasoning and observing machine had managed to offer me one last incredible surprise. As last gift, his parting one, he had let the last mask fall, stripped off the last disguise, leaving me with the last glittering facet to make our picture complete. I closed my eyes and whispered the name of my one true love “Sherlock”.

Writing notes:

As little girl my two male loves were Mr Spock and Sherlock Holmes, yes there is a pattern there :P As you see a part of me still holds a torch …

This was originally written for the poetry dice challenge by @rensoul17 -I decided to use every prompt and sentence that was offered to challenge myself.

besides the dice This Week’s Word Themes where:
Shelter
Whisper
Energy
Sometimes
Music
Leaves
Violin
Breathe

This Week’s Writing Phrases Prompts were :

“Just like his/her love, the message was encoded”
“This key was a mystery to me. Where did it come from?”
“Just like the trees that blossom in the Spring….”
“The algorithm was the reason for our success.”
“They were like the Illuminati, they operated under the radar, invisible to most.”
“Her scent fragranced the room like the melody of a Spanish Guitar.”

somewhere along the line it somehow turned into more of a short story but I decided to share it anyway …even if it really does not even fit into the prose poetry anymore… Still -Enjoy !

_{(Image credit Dave Renike and a portrait of the fair jubilee made by myself turned into this here universal truth meme)}

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_{art courtesy of @PegasusPhysics}

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