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



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