That day, we had walked together, unknowingly, down the path that lead to Gethsemane.
We fell into silence as we passed through the garden; understanding only then with clarity:
that Time will prosecute all love in the end, and that only a fool hopes for his clemency.
On a bench, we stopped and spoke awhile; each sentiment so carelessly clipped by brevity.
Then our time was spent, we knew. Together we slowly neared the end of our path, warily;
where, on the far-side of the garden, it split into two: one path for me, another for Stephanie.
