Left Handed Lover

Left Handed Lover

She isn’t quite right, is she? Not right minded, right on time, right-wing, or right brained. But that’s her right.

She’s got her tight end on the left, she’s loose, and she’s the only one in TLC who doesn’t chase waterfalls anymore.

The world isn’t designed for her. She has trouble with most pairs of scissors, she always has to sit on the outside of the table, and she has one too many feet of a certain variety.

She passes the pipe counterclockwise. Whether or not that’s wise, she isn’t wise to. But she doesn’t look at the world like you do.

She lives in a blue state in a confused state, slating her fate by spinning pinwheels on the other side–where Bob Barker usually stands.

She’s mostly alone, hardly ever at home, difficult to reach on the phone, and less comfortable with a bagel than a scone.

She has the right of way, but never takes it. She’s hard to get to come, but she never fakes it. She can’t dance, but she still shakes it.

Her handwriting is terrible. She’s hard to pitch to, and if you ask her about Britain, she’ll tell you that they drive on the right side of the road.

She cries at the drop of a hat, sleeps more hours than she’s awake, and sometimes she hears noises she can’t explain.

She’s been rejected because of the color of her hair, drowned out because she’s soft spoken, and marginalized because she lives outside the margins.

She fits perfectly in my arms, rolls right off the tongue, and smells like she’s been dipped in honeysuckle.

Her body is a temple decorated with orchids, stars, and Japanese letters. She tried to be vegan, but it didn’t take. Lefties are inconstant as the wind, but she’ll always come through… for my sake.

I’ve got a left-handed lover. She causes as much trouble as she’s worth. She fell westward from the stars and landed on a beachy patch of earth.

I met her by reading a message in a bottle of a south-paw sort. It stated rather simply: “Take a boat out to sea and keep looking port.”