He gets his
Laughter from her smiles and her eyes
Always make him think of winter mountain tops.
When she sneezes, he stops whatever he's doing to see if she's okay
(She usually is)
And then he asks her if she wants to be blessed
(She usually does).
When she screams out loud in the middle of the night,
He asks her about her dream as he holds her hand.
She never tells him about the dreams,
But he never stops asking.
He gets his
Strength from her soft cooing and her accent
Always makes him think of babies laughing.
Away from her,
He is Mr. Badass-Don't-Fuck-With-Me-I-Will-End-You,
Armed to the teeth and ready to
Kill kill kill kill,
All who come close to his bread
And butter.
He makes his living by
Pushing aside the living,
By securing perimeters
And guarding bodies.
He owns forty-seven different kinds of handguns
(seven are antiques, passed down from his father)
And he knows hundreds of ways
to kill a man.
He's fought in wars, in rings, on streets and inside hotel rooms.
He's disarmed and killed hired killers.
And he once broke the hand of a man
(in sixteen places)
Who forgot that day's password.
He's watched hundreds of men die.
But when he is home
And she makes him breakfast
While singing soft songs from her home country,
He cannot hold back his tears of joy.
He gets his pride from her worth,
He feeds his soul with her love,
And, after she kisses him goodbye,
And he heads out for another day of work,
It takes him several walking blocks
Before he remembers
Just what he does for a living.