We stayed up all night

with the daughters of Russian

immigrants, lounging by the fire

in hobo coats and corduroy

trousers, listening to The Cure

in the dark, talking until dawn,

watching the sun rise over the bay.
After sunrise, we made coffee

and pancakes for the sisters

and their parents, unconsciously

auditioning for the role of missing

son or future son-in-law.
Exhausted and content,

we walked to the station

late on Sunday mornings,

caught trains travelling towards

home, slouched in near-empty

carriages, tried not to fall asleep

before we reached our stop.
We walked from the station

across a silent, empty campus

to our solitary rooms, unaware

that our comforting weekly ritual

would soon quietly fade away.