Don'T Tell Momma I Got High

Don't tell Momma I got high last weekend, on the lake by the waters edge on a truck beside a boy with black hair and tattoes and good, good weed. A bubbler, he said. And we didn't do a thing in the physical sense, we mostly stared at the trees. And we talked about things that don’t make good with certainty. How it all ties in. The what.. the why.. the point of speculation. I remember my fast-beating heart as I thought about the light only just reaching us light-years behind comprehension. How strange we just now see it. And what if the star has died? Faded out.. Imploded.. Collapsed. Then are we seeing ghosts? It was really, really good weed.