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.