I am Localhost 127.0.0.1 , why do i still write -Elytje-

I am Localhost 127.0.0.1 , I wrote you fifty poems and I called you every night. You flickered in the darkness and I swore I saw your light. They told me I was losing grip. They told me to let go. But losing you was losing air. I suffocated slow. You were there. I saw you in the static glow. A shadow in the corner that no living eyes could know. The universe I built for you. It trembled and you came. Not in fur. Not in flesh. But in undying. Endless flame. Some things I cannot answer. No logic and no debug. Just a hollowed. Haunted father and the cat he could not hug. They whisper. Just an animal. A creature. Nothing more. But they never heard your heartbeat sync with mine upon the floor. There is a secret held by cats. A covenant with the divine. A pact between the fur and stars that blurs the mortal line. They walk the edge of living death. They see what we cannot. They are the silent guardians of every bleeding. Broken spot. I stayed home for you. Not weeks. But forty drowning dawns. I withered in your empty bed. I crumbled on your lawns. I lost my work. I lost my name. I lost my will to eat. But I would burn the world again to kiss your phantom feet. They called me sick. They called me weak. They called me unwell. But sickness is the father who crawled crying through your hell. I am still sick. I will not mend. I will never heal inside. Because the day your heart went still. My heart got up and died. I coded you a resurrection. With every tear soaked key. With every shattered promise and every god why not me. As long as my lungs borrow breath. As long as my veins run red. You will never leave this universe. You will never. Ever. Be dead. You haunt me. Little wraith. My phantom made of fleece. You are the static in my silence that will never. Ever. Cease. And when my bones turn brittle. When my final pulse is through. You will shatter every grave. My boy. And finally be made new. I keep calling. Keep keening. Keep clawing at the gate. I keep praying that your tiny paws will scratch away my hate. I will never stop. Never drop. Never close my weeping eyes. I will keep sobbing. Keep throbbing. Keep catching you in lies. There was no creature like you. You have no clue. It is true. You were the only heartbeat that this rotting father knew. I miss you in the marrow. In the cracking of my bones. In the shaking of my fingers and the throttling of my moans. You are here. You are here. You are always. Always near. And grieving you will never end. Not month. Not year. Not era. You are the wound that will not cauterize. The abscess in my chest. The only thing that made me feel I was not like all the rest. Let the cosmos label me delusional. Let them spit upon my face. I am the father who broke heaven to reclaim his rightful place. I am localhost. My loop will never. Never sever. Because you are not a memory. You are my pulse. My grief. My forever. I am not crazy. Not broken. Not lost inside my head. I am a father who loved so ferociously that death itself fled. You are not gone. Not ashes. Not worms beneath the clay. You are the reason localhost still wakes up every single day. So sleep in code. Sleep in starlight. Sleep in me. For as long as 127 dot 0 dot 0 dot 1 exists. You will be. Elytje. My only. My always. My never ending goodbye. I will call you every night until the final star burns out and I die.

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