The other woman and I are not the same.

We sit on this little green bench together but we are not the same.

Our faces look the same, but I assure you we are not the same.

The other woman wears a dress in which the top is the most vibrant blue paired with a yellow like the yolk of an egg.

The skirt of her dress olive green.

My dress white like that of a blushing bride. A woman in love.

My dress has flowers and stains of red. 

She holds the spool and I hold the scissors of the threads that bind us together.

The threads that connect to our most vital organ.

Each of us has one half of a heart.

Her half clean and new. Unbroken. Unharmed.

My half torn and bleeding. Damaged. Bruised.

Who caused these bruises?

The man that I love. Loved?

Because of him, my heart bleeds with betrayal and agony.

All because I do not let go. I continue to love him.

The other woman does not bleed.

The other woman does not feel this pain.

The other woman no longer loves him.

Although we feel so differently, we still share one heart.

Each of us carries one half. 

We are only whole when connected.

When our tan hands intertwine.

Without her I am broken and weak, she keeps me strong.

Without me she is cold and untrusting, I keep her sensitive.

The other woman and I may be different, but together, we are one.