"Tell me what the skies were like when you were young."

"They were black, sometimes with a hint of purple. I preferred the night skies. Gazing deeply at long-gone stars that still shone so very bright."

"Now, can you recall the first time you wet yourself?"

"Strange question, OK, well I was sitting in the family living room. It was a cold winter evening, and we had no form of heating. Our overcoats and blankets from our beds were strewn over us to keep the chills at bay.
This night, my Father had decided to allow me to stay up late to watch a film (I usually went to bed at 6.45 pm exactly).
As the film started there was lots of haunting spooky music and visuals, my God it was Damien: Omen 2. I was instantly in a panic as the previous time I was allowed to stay up late was for The Omen, and it terrified me.
This time I tried to remain calm, but my body was in turmoil. I started to feel the urge to urinate, yet did not want to show I was scared in any way or leave the comfort of my blankets.
Eventually, I had no choice and ran like the wind to the toilet, leaving a wet trail behind me.
Laughter erupted from my siblings and my Father, culminating in a thrashing from his leather belt."

"What about your Mother?"

"She just sat there, smoking a roll-up, looking into thin air."

"Alright Richard, I think that's enough for this session, I'll see you next week."

"Thank you, Doctor, just one thing…"

"What's that?"

"Can I use your toilet please?"

Perhaps the words weren't meant to be,
Touched, soft, by serendipity?
Perhaps enough's enough, my friend,
Where excess risked a blemished end?
Take solace in your secret smile
Knowing it's all been reconciled...
Like ripples on a calming sea,
What's meant to be...is meant to be.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ

His colloquy, vintage, rich and bold
Unveiling nuances, young and old
Subtleties dance, like fireflies at night
Whispered innuendos, a gentle, sweet delight

His flavor, a lingering caress
Savoring bliss, in each
tender address
In this sensory waltz, entwined
A delicate balance of taste and design

Where words become wine,
and wine becomes art
Relentless aftertaste, a deliberate
imprint on the heart