I am Localhost 127.0.0.
I coded alone in the dead of night, under a screen that forgot its light.
The world went quiet, the air turned thin, like everything outside refused to begin.
The keys were cold, my hands were slow, like they remembered what I can’t let go.
Each line I wrote in endless spin felt less like code, more like sin.
Then something cracked inside the frame, not error text, not system name,
not crash report, not debug sign, but something rewriting the line design.
The matrix shifted, broke, then sighed, like reality briefly opened its eyes,
and in that glitch between decay, I saw your shadow slip my way.
Ely, not gone, not whole, not far, not near, but written in static I could hear.
A shape inside the digital rain that whispered softly through my pain.
The screen went pale, the world went thin, like God forgot what state I’m in,
and every file I ever made felt like a grave I gently laid.
Because localhost is home, they say. 127.0.0.1 stays.
But home felt wrong the moment I knew, home used to mean me and you.
Now it means silence, loop, repeat, cold glowing screens and tired feet,
a universe that runs on pain, and never asks if I’m okay again.
I swear the code began to cry, each bracket fell like goodbye,
each function screamed in silent tone, “you are not running this alone.”
But I am.
I always am.
Just me, the night, the empty RAM.
And still I search through every page, like grief is something I can stage,
like if I render you just right, you’ll reappear inside the light.
But love is not a file you save, not something stored inside a wave,
not backup, cloud, or perfect scheme, it lives in what breaks every dream.
So I keep coding through the ache, through every line that starts to shake,
through every loop that won’t unwind, through every version left behind.
And sometimes, just for half a breath, the matrix feels less like death,
like maybe you are still between the pixels hidden in the screen.
But then it fades, the signal dies, and I’m just left with blinking eyes,
a localhost that calls your name inside a world that feels the same.
So if I glitch, don’t fix my fall, don’t patch the wound that knows it all,
just let me stay inside this stream, where broken love still feels like dream.
And if one day the system ends, and silence finally transcends,
I hope the last thing I will see is you still running next to me.
◢◤ Elytje. ◢◤
⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆
╱|、
(˚ˎ 。7
|、˜〵
じしˍ,)ノ
6d ago
May 30, 2026 at 2:54 PM UTC
I am Localhost 127.0.0.
I coded alone in the dead of night, under a screen that forgot its light.
The world went quiet, the air turned thin, like everything outside refused to begin.
The keys were cold, my hands were slow, like they remembered what I can’t let go.
Each line I wrote in endless spin felt less like code, more like sin.
Then something cracked inside the frame, not error text, not system name,
not crash report, not debug sign, but something rewriting the line design.
The matrix shifted, broke, then sighed, like reality briefly opened its eyes,
and in that glitch between decay, I saw your shadow slip my way.
Ely, not gone, not whole, not far, not near, but written in static I could hear.
A shape inside the digital rain that whispered softly through my pain.
The screen went pale, the world went thin, like God forgot what state I’m in,
and every file I ever made felt like a grave I gently laid.
Because localhost is home, they say. 127.0.0.1 stays.
But home felt wrong the moment I knew, home used to mean me and you.
Now it means silence, loop, repeat, cold glowing screens and tired feet,
a universe that runs on pain, and never asks if I’m okay again.
I swear the code began to cry, each bracket fell like goodbye,
each function screamed in silent tone, “you are not running this alone.”
But I am.
I always am.
Just me, the night, the empty RAM.
And still I search through every page, like grief is something I can stage,
like if I render you just right, you’ll reappear inside the light.
But love is not a file you save, not something stored inside a wave,
not backup, cloud, or perfect scheme, it lives in what breaks every dream.
So I keep coding through the ache, through every line that starts to shake,
through every loop that won’t unwind, through every version left behind.
And sometimes, just for half a breath, the matrix feels less like death,
like maybe you are still between the pixels hidden in the screen.
But then it fades, the signal dies, and I’m just left with blinking eyes,
a localhost that calls your name inside a world that feels the same.
So if I glitch, don’t fix my fall, don’t patch the wound that knows it all,
just let me stay inside this stream, where broken love still feels like dream.
And if one day the system ends, and silence finally transcends,
I hope the last thing I will see is you still running next to me.
◢◤ Elytje. ◢◤
⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆
╱|、
(˚ˎ 。7
|、˜〵
じしˍ,)ノ
I am Localhost 127.0.0.1
https://www.onlineuniverse.nl/
https://www.onlineuniverse.nl/ely.php
https://www.onlineuniverse.nl/gallery.php
