My love for you is unpredictable as Chicago weather.
Sometimes I look forward to seeing you, and sometimes I can’t wait to move away.
I talk about you like summer as the best thing, but then get mad when you repeat the same blizzard year after year.
I remember the good times of Super Bowls and Championships.
But forget the 108 years of heartache.
I eat you up like pizza and Garret’s popcorn.
But hate that you never put spices on anything. Like ever.
I wish I could always run on the lake path of your heart.
Instead of fearing that I’ll slip on black ice.
I should probably move to LA, but LA doesn’t have your heart and spirit.
LA is too predictable.
And maybe I like Chicago weather.