Forgiveness is love, so why is it that the ones we are supposed to love the most are the hardest to forgive?

This is the six-toed cat of The Writer on a drunken street that echoes with music at the southernmost point on the bluest blue wet water at sunset, and you are in another person's arms, and that person is in yours while a fingerless deckhand hoists sails with muscled thumbs. 

This is a guy in a Callaway hat smoking a cigar, an automatically unforgivable asshole, and a butterfly landing on your shoulder.

This is the stretching sound of ropes that hold a boat to a dock, and a nap in a hammock under a palm tree that explodes, and two street names that make a corner that should not exist but it does.

On a runway: "Everything is pink. I like it."

In the air: A glittering gold and silver grid with highway veins pumping cells of white headlights and red break lights and you feel the thump the thump the thump the thump the thump the thump the thump the thump until you rise into the clouds and everything is static and soft and nothing is left to see or do or say except one thing that is all these things at once.