those three little word,
like walking backwards 
up a steep incline
with my legs tied together.
all the time you’d tell me
how special we were,
and I’d rest my head 
on your warm breast,
my mind lost in the deep
red ring of your nipple,
my fingers drumming 
your firm abdomen,
while all the time 
those three little words 
rumbled behind my ribs,
edging their way 
up my wind-pipe,
to form round vowels,
soft consonants, 
the pop of a pistol,
the start of a race 
with no lanes 
and  no finishing line.