It has been 60 days.

60 days of turmoil and cotton brain and almost nothing coming to fruition. It had been a hundred days before that of hustle and bustle, of things coming together, of the air being electric. The storm has died, and although I cursed it’s presence I find it’s absence has left me with something of a hollow space in my head, the wreckage has left nothing of note.

I had promised her to write everyday, and I intended to. Maybe not exactly everyday but every other day or something along those lines, and yet it has been 60 days. I would be remiss if I said I didn’t put pen to paper, sat in front of my desk and brought out a fresh pen and paper and tried to say something about the hundred days of lightning. But soon enough one day turned to four, and this town stayed exactly the same.

I thought it would be different without her, the sun would shine a little less bright and the world would seem a little duller but it all remains largely the same except for the lack of excitement. And then I found myself wondering if I even liked excitement, I hadn’t before she arrived, perhaps the quiet would suit me again shortly, the life I had come back and settle on me like an old coat.

It has been 60 days, 60 days of nothing. I could have called her, I could have said something but for what, to make her come back? Her with her wild hair and her city life and her large camera, why would she come back to a place like this? “Come to the city, we’ll dance under the moonlight and listen to the siren’s calling us and forget the world exists outside of rooftops and lukewarm beer.”

I said yes because in that moment the light hit her eyes just right and the world seemed like it had softened. But I don’t like the city, or the sirens. I don’t relish in hustle and bustle, in the chaos of the everyday. And perhaps it is my fault that I let it happen this way, let her believe I was only some poor country boy waiting to be saved, waiting for someone to lead them to something better.

She is fire, she is a runner, she would never make it here. So I take back the paper and I put back the pen, and I listen to the nothing in the silence of the night.

Day 61, maybe tomorrow.

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