Wind Chill

There's always a quaint perspective of love on television. There's always the overly happy couple with their overly happy stories of how they fell in love at first sight, first encounters, and the moment their lips intertwined under moonlight-- but they never talk about people like us. They never mention me and you. I stood on the bridge on Michigan Avenue and witnessed an undying emotion in the river's steady current. The glistening on it's skin looked like white angels dancing along it's waves, the light, that provided the blissful sparkle on it came from heaven sprinkled onto my beauty. So he sparkles. Truthfully, my pride no longer prevents me from admitting that I don't have a clue about how he makes me feel. But the wind spawned from his constant rush has enough power to piss me off and make me warm inside all at once. At 15 I would come home and be asked why my hair was all over the place, I simply said, "It was the wind". And so Chicago's love affair with me, wrote many poems along Michigan Avenue, it never ended.