The other woman.

​

No, I am not jealous.  

I still remember the day when I saw her, for the first time. She is everything, I am not. She has everything, I do not. She is epitome of perfection, I can never be. 

She has things, I can never have. She has you, I can only dream of. I understand she is flawless and I can never match her, but you know what? I do not want to. You know why? Simply because I love you, the way she can never do. She is your trophy, you can show her off, but you can never show your real self to her. My dear, you are living a life of pretence. You can take her to the parties and make her meet your friends. “Damn! How hot your girlfriend is!”,they say. You get that sense of pride, but you cannot find happiness in her hotness. Why do you need me, at 3 in the morning, to share that embarrassing childhood experience? You pamper her with expensive gifts and take her on long drives. Then why do you need me, for those late night walks? How can you go days without talking to her, and need me, each night, to tell about each hour of your day? You tell her about your accomplishments, and share your failures with me. On your difficult days, why doesn’t her presence comfort you, and an ‘everything will be fine’, from me comforts you to the core? Why do you never make an eye contact with her and dive a thousand times in my eyes, when we talk? Why do you need to hug me after you have had a bad day? Why do you bare your soul infront of me? You love her, you say. Then, why don’t you, be you, infront of her?

 I am the ‘other woman’ of your life. If this is what, the other woman gets, I do not regret being one.

Am I jealous? 

No, baby, no, you do not give me a chance to be.