you don’t have my heart like a postcard or a poem.
You got it like a scar—earned, aching, unforgettable.

Not with chocolate box softness,
but with grease-stained fingers and Jordan 1s on cracked concrete,
with trains that sing lullabies in metal and motion.

You are rhythm and rupture.
A pulse in every pothole,
a bassline in every boarded window,
a sanctuary of hustlers and hood dreams.

Your lake don’t shimmer—it speaks.
Tells me about fire and floods,
about how we build out of dust and dare.

Burnham once drew a city.
But we—us—we be drawing breath in it,
etching murals in sweat,
raising families in spite of it all.

You’re not just a melting pot—
you’re a molotov of memory and hope,
of brown faces, borrowed tongues,
barbershop philosophies and porchlight theology.

You knock people down.
But you teach ‘em to rise louder.
To make art out of ache.
To dance with the weight of the world on their shoulders.

So yeah,
Chi-Town,
you got my heart like a fist raised,
like a prayer whispered on the Red Line at 2AM.

Forever Windy.
Forever mine.