Summary

The text is an introspective open letter that reflects on the strained relationship between two individuals whose schedules prevent them from interacting, leading to a sense of disconnection despite their physical closeness during sleep.

Abstract

In a poignant and introspective open letter, the author, presumably named John Doe, expresses the emotional distance in his marriage to Jane, despite sharing a bed. He muses on the irony that their only quality time together is spent unconscious, as their work schedules are misaligned. The author describes their marital bed as a "Cold War-zone," symbolizing unspoken tension and missed connections. He longs for a deeper bond and fears the possibility of never having meaningful interactions again. The letter conveys a sense of desperation and a desire to reconnect, as the author holds onto hope that their love can overcome the challenges of their daily lives.

Opinions

The author feels a profound sense of disconnection from his partner, despite their physical proximity during sleep.
He believes that their marriage, symbolized by their wedding rings, is suffering due to the lack of communication and shared experiences.
There is a sense of regret and longing for the past, as evidenced by the nostalgic recollection of their wedding day.
The author is tormented by the fear that their last interaction might have been insignificant or forgettable, which could haunt them if one were to pass away unexpectedly.
He is hopeful that their relationship can improve and that they can rediscover the connection that initially brought them together.
The author is conscious of the impact his thoughts have on his well-being and encourages himself to find reasons to smile, despite the challenges in his marriage.
He acknowledges his own morbidity and does not wish to burden his partner with his worries, asking for forgiveness for his dark thoughts.

I Work Nights, You Work too Much

An open letter, a prose-poem

WARNING: Mildly graphic content ahead, also, apologies to night mode users on mobile. You’ll understand later.

Jane,

For the roughly five-and-a-half hours we spend together each day, we’re both asleep. Never able to say a word to each other, for when I wake up, you’re long gone, and when I crawl back home from work, you’re deep asleep.

As I doze, I’m inclined to think I can notice when you leave the bed. Dreams don’t transform into nightmares with the flip of a switch, but I’m inclined to believe the only worth-while sleep I get is beside you.

Or I at least want to believe that I notice when you’re under these covers next to me, when you leave, when you come and go from the sink for water, when you toss & turn, it would explain so much.

I know the sleazy priest that bound us together in the eyes of god told us our marital bed is a ‘sacred place,’ and you know it was all your mother’s idea to get married in a church, but I pray this is not what either of us had in mind when he said that.

Our poor mattress feels like a Cold War-zone. Marriage is supposed to make you happy, or at least that’s a lie I still try to carry.

I feel like the cans we taped to your old shitbox from garage-box yarn under the sunbeams of our wedding day. Dragging against the blackening pavement at the will of something above them. We paraded that old SUV around the Bay proud of our customary props, tin testaments to our love, forcing a message of hope sirened out of them while their sole option was cursing at the wind.

It’s been weeks since I’ve seen the emeralds you seclude behind your eyelids for more than a moment or consciously held your hand in mine. The petite, gonging thunder of our rings pitter-pattering in our linked hands is just about the only thing I actually wish to hear these days.

There’s hope in the bottom of my heart you ‘feel’ me there beside you too, but part of me doesn’t. This ‘feeling’ is unpredictability, parasitically hooked to me by the back of the brain.

Quite frankly my head’s been tied in knots, and my intestines have devolved to tangled fishing line, trailing up my spine to that hook. Sometimes, at the darkest points of the noon-lull, my headspace is hell-bent on hobbling to the toilet, flushing the bait I don’t remember swallowing, and junking all that’s too far gone, so I may start anew.

Or maybe I don’t even ‘feel’ you at all. Perhaps our bodies just know. Perhaps we’re puzzle pieces, vacuum-sealed at their partitions, who find harmony in the interconnection we bring each other, awake or not.

Forget about your eyes, I can’t even remember the last thing we’ve said to each other. What if death knocks on our door with his scythe tomorrow when we’re apart?

What will become of us if we can’t remember the last words we said to each other??

How will either of us be able to live that down???

There’s a timer, ticking away near the back of my mind that ends the last time our rings cling, and our wedding bands return to the Earth once more in a different shape, never to glisten off your fingers again. Maybe that’s the fishhook, maybe not. I just hope they’re buried on our hands, not chucked into the river we used to picnic alongside, snapping every imaginary grudge with a swift wrist-flick.

I still follow your advice: I always find reasons to smile through the day, even if they, or mainly you, don’t populate my field of view.

I don’t know why I’m so caught up in this, I just know I sleep well next to you. Rest easy, and forgive my morbidity. The last thing I’d want is for you to start losing sleep with me.

— John Doe

— A.D.

If you have any inquiries about anything, feel free to reach out!