Dry… from the box

Depressed Intellectuals
1 min readSep 22, 2020


I sat down to write you a poem.

A beautiful love poem,

one filled with flowers

and sunsets

and moonlight

and electricity…

but all I could think about

was the way you ate ‘Corn Pops’

dry… from the box.

I wanted to write about falling asleep beside you,

listening to your soft breathing,

so soft, I felt guilty at witnessing it.

The secrets of goddesses.

I would write about waking up beside you,

the nights’ dreams still dancing

in your warm, sleepy eyes…

but instead, I find myself wondering…

How could anyone eat that cereal without the milk?

Perhaps I should write about your kisses-

the soft peck on my face,

so light, so sweet.

I believe I blushed.

The long, deep ones

red hot and peppery,

that made my nose twitch

and my eyes water

and had me seeing technicolor stars.

Rising and falling with the beats of our hearts,

beating in rhythm.

Bodies pressed together…tight.

I would have written all of this and more…

but the only thing that I could think about

was the way you ate ‘Corn Pops’,

by the handful…

dry… from the box.



Depressed Intellectuals

Flaneur. Convergence of art, politics, science, fashion, fitness and food… as seen through the eyes of a, self proclaimed, depressed intellectual.