our work is never over

He kisses like he’s won a war. Hard, hungry, victorious—breathless, like he has spent the past years fighting and only now has he stopped long enough to catch his breath. His hands grasp—                                                  at arms,                                                           at clothes,                                                                      at hair— like you are the spoils of the battle, and he fears losing you to the demons that still snap at his heels. He kisses like a man afraid that this will be fleeting, insubstantial, and will abandon him,                     just like his parents did. He still wears the fears of a child, jumping at shadows, flinching at raised voices. But Everything will be alright, you whisper, and your voice is gentle. You are his rock, his shelter, and he, the disbelieving victor, scarred and bleeding but finally home, home.