Connie Pachecho Poet Free verse

Notes About The Poem

Lost Love

He remembers that day
many sad years ago
It was sunny out,
But soon a storm raged.

He returned home early
from work,
eager
to rest and nurse a cold.
Eager
to see his gorgeous wife
fix him a delicious soup
and give loving care,
a remedy not.
He caught a surprise.

Was it then a hallucination?
To see her ex's car 
in front of their house,
fanning the flames in his heart?
Or to imagine the house shaking,
or to hear love noises howling 
from the rafters of contempt,
As her fireplace warmed the tempest.
He sure hoped then... it had been a misfire
It wasn't.

He slowly opened the front door,
walking decrepit and sad,
like he was in hospice care.
He could see the final script
playing out,
more so, the tragic ending
the trail of clothes,
her ex-boyfriend's scent,
calamity,
and approaching closer
The devil is speaking louder.

He opened the bedroom door
to their parts caught in honey jars
and scarlet red on his tainted wife
over bed sheets of shame. 
Their eyes catch,
both flush and tearful,
as breathing stopped,
His melancholy eyes ask why?
Why? 
What about the future lily pods?
our family, house, kids
... and you sell out.
What about being fresh
out of college with our dreams,
passion and honor...us.
What about the bonds?
pinky swears, pricking of blood
marital vows.
Her eyes had no answers.
She cried the loudest
as her ex-boyfriend bolted 
not before passing the mill.

He closed her door for good
that mournful day,
dismissing darkness,
opening his wrath for her
in his mind, yet
What words or light can be exchanged?

Uprooted and lost, he walked
scarred over and over
by her promise and lost love.

That was thirty years ago
And he still walks with her
ghosts, and it still pains.

connie pachecho

4/15/26

Note: I wonder who the guilty party is?

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Connie Pachecho April 16, 2026 at 11:00 AM The saddest poems I've written, I think, were the times I'm saddled up at a bar. The horse has run away for good reason. Yet I reminisce about that horse that's not there. And I drink and pay homage and give oats to his memory. It's more than just beer to me, and with each glass and written line, the weight of my heart gets heavier. I look at the other patrons, free from being caught in honey jars, and shed a tear.