Kiss. Baptism.

 by David Campos

The night fills with charged chatter
from the bar we exited. I ask if I can kiss
her
and wonder what door this will open.

Soon, she'll be gone for two weeks,

and I'll ride my bike out to a bench

close to a canal where the crows eat the

fallen

left-over fruit from the orchards.

They've been cleared to build new doors

over the rotting roots. Each day she's

gone,

I chain smoke to ease nerves and call her,

already out of breath. Her voice, an elixir I 

savor

like the small and sudden bursts of a 

breeze

cooling my forehead; baptism is a doorway

for faith.

It's been hard to believe in love again,

but faith is at the center of every request.

She answered by kissing me, unlocking

all the terror stored in these clouds of

flesh.

But I remember how easily and quickly

the mind travels vast distances to find

meaning

in the strange and striking shapes of our

lives.

I felt her sweat on my lips. Baptism.

from Poem-a-Day, February 13, 2026