I am sitting on a deck chair in the tan sand with the gentle breeze off the Pacific rustling the palm tree beside me. My bride is dozing next to me, basking in the golden sun.

I'm watching my 3 daughters, skin darkened by the Hawaiian sun, float on the pool like water. Their snorkel gear allowing them to see a world that they have never seen before, alive with creatures that are foreign to them. The air around me is 80 degrees but the drink in my hand is frosty cold with the tiniest umbrella punctuating the island nature of it. Thoughts of staying here and not returning to the cold, dark and rainy winter of the Pacific Northwest play on my mind.

I dismiss it.

But maybe someday.

I am alone, sat in a dark Victorian house that was once home to Beatrix Potter.

It is a Hotel these days, and all our guests have retired to their rooms to sleep for the night.

Illuminated by a single electric lamp, I sip my coffee and gaze through the restaurant doorway into the shadowy hallways that stretch ahead.

I am Night Porter.

I am Sentinel.

In a weeks time after you always leave

It's a mess

The ceiling fan causes the pages of my open journal that's placed on the floor to flutter

Pairs of shoes litter the ground, one set isn't mine

Sweaters, jeans, and a singular pair of shorts make tiny islands on the carpet

The light from my open closet breaks the dark and creates soft shadows on the wall and posters that resides on it

A single line of light slashes across the guitar propped against the wall, the clock on the bed reads 1:54 AM

The bed is a jumble, the standing fan in the far corner lightly shifts air over the wrinkled sheets

It's cold yet warm in the room

Winter taps its cold wind wrapped hand against my window

It's cozy here