Same Three Words

My mother called to check a date.

Four minutes, five at most—I love you.

She said it back. Easy. Straight.

That one was real. That one came through.

That evening: your coat on the hook,

mine half on, one arm still out.

You were talking. I said the same words

and heard something else—a doubt

not in the meaning, just the weight.

Like pressing on a floorboard

to find where it gives.

One arm in. One arm not.

The door half open.

The word still in the air.

The first one I meant cleanly.

The second: I'm not sure.