That Word

By Lucinda Sands

I half lie, edgy
on the side of one thigh
and look into you.
On my bed silence spreads,
trepidation sleeps.
Then that word saunters in
proud from outside,
dances on my lips
and kicks dust into the air.
You are still for too long.
I whisper, “I really do.”
Finally. You ask,
“does it bother you
that I don’t say it?”
Sometime later, I’m not sure when
perhaps an hour into next time
that word reappears
tiptoes across your face
and steals the air between us.