I feel her anxious heartbeats.

Erratic, grasping, hollow.

I feel her breath.

Expanding, escaping, desperate.

I feel her thoughts.

Scattered, focused, reaching.

I feel her spirit.

Deep, wide, lonely.

I am her words.

Seeking their mate.

Chelsey Whitlow



I adore this stillness.

This early morning calm.

This barely light that saturates slowly.

This mercy that erases midnight’s fear.

This quiet,

That begs of me to drink deep before the madness descends once again.

Chelsey Whitlow


A phone call.

Deep breath.




A diagnosis.

Tears, because …

Knees hitting carpet.

Desperation and hope.

Head in hands.


Inadequate words.

Whispers shattering silence.

And, then …

I’m here, dear one. 

I’m here. 

Storms clouds swelling.

Fists ready.

Strength, not my own.

Still breathing.


He’s here. 

Chelsey Whitlow 



They were lies.


I recognized their particular shade of spin as soon as they dripped from his exquisite lips.


I wanted to drink deep of that shade.

Drown in those lips.

Convince myself I didn’t already taste that familiar undertone of acid.


I could have played along.

For just a little while.


I could have leaned in close,

lips curled ever so slightly,

whispered wordlessly,

Game on.


I could have slipped my hand in his,

And disappeared past midnight,

Kept that harsh song of loneliness silenced for a night,

Or maybe two.


They were lies.


And there wasn’t enough whiskey in the world tonight…

To make me forget.



Chelsey Whitlow