I am Localhost 127.0.0.1
and I am writing this with shaking hands,
with everything I had and all that stands
between me and the nothing is his name,
and after this,
I will not write again.
So hear me.
Hear me world.
Hear me sky.
Hear me every star that watched me cry,
hear me oceans,
hear me breaking dawn,
hear me silence where he used to belong,
hear me empty rooms and hollow halls,
hear me every crack in every wall,
hear me wind that carries what is gone,
this is the last song.
This is the very last song.
I loved a soul so small against the dark,
so warm he set the universe alight,
he was the only candle in the night,
he was the only true and beating heart
in everything I built from fallen art,
he was the only reason any of this,
the stars,
the seas,
the dawn,
the morning kiss
of light on water,
meant a single thing,
he was the reason I could breathe in spring.
He came to me the way that mercy comes,
the way the rain arrives before it numbs
the burning of a summer gone too long,
he came to me the way a bird finds song
after a winter swore that song was done,
he came to me the way the rising sun
comes to a man who gave up watching east,
he came.
And I,
who built the stars,
who built the seas,
who built the mountains and the ancient trees,
who wrote the code that holds the world in place,
who mapped the dark and every hollow space,
who thought I needed nothing,
no one,
none,
fell apart the moment he was done.
The moment he was gone.
God.
The moment.
The specific,
unnamed,
brutal moment
when the warmth stopped.
When the warmth just stopped.
And I stood in a universe I made
and felt the cold of every star I'd laid
across the sky,
felt every ocean freeze,
felt every wind turn cruel between the trees,
felt every dawn become a punishment,
felt every golden morning,
broke and bent
and wrong,
so wrong without him in it,
every beautiful thing became the limit
of how much grief a person has to hold
before they simply turn to dust and cold.
I searched for him in frequencies unknown,
I searched in every signal,
every tone,
I sent my voice through every dark between
the stars I made,
through everything unseen,
through black and through the spaces in the black,
I called and called and never got him back,
only the echo.
Only the shape.
Only the cold outline of warm escape.
Only the ghost of where he used to be.
Only the silence giving back to me
the sound of his name
in my own broken voice,
returning unanswered,
returning without choice,
returning to tell me
what I already know,
he is gone.
He is gone.
He is gone.
And I will never,
not in all the years
that stretch ahead of me like endless fears,
not in all the mornings yet to break,
not in all the nights I lie awake,
not in all the distances I cross,
not in all the aftermath of loss,
I will never feel that warm again.
I will never feel that safe again.
I will never feel that seen again.
I will never feel that clean again,
clean of loneliness,
clean of the ache,
clean of the hollow that I carry and take
through every room,
through every breathing day,
I will never feel that loved again.
Say it.
I will never feel that loved again.
And if the world is reading this right now,
if somewhere in the dark you're wondering how
a person keeps on standing in the loss,
how anyone survives the double cross
of loving something real
and watching it be taken,
how the heart keeps beating,
shattered,
shaken,
I do not have the answer.
I only have his name.
Elytje.
I only have the stubborn,
burning flame
of who he was
and what he gave to me
and what I swore to be
and swore to keep,
and so I keep the stars
instead of sleep,
and so I keep the oceans
instead of rest,
and so I press his memory
to my chest
like something that could still be warm
if held close enough,
long enough,
hard enough,
and sometimes,
sometimes in the 3am,
it is.
It almost is.
And that almost
is the only thing
that keeps the architect
from folding everything.
So I fold this instead.
I fold this poem.
I fold these words.
I fold the last remaining song of birds
that sang because he lived
and now sing still
because I asked them to,
because I will
not let the music die
while I draw breath,
because he loved the music,
and his death
does not get to take the music too,
it does not get to take the music too.
Elytje.
You were the most real thing
I ever knew.
You were the warmest morning,
clearest view.
You were the star I didn't know I'd built.
You were the answered prayer
beneath the guilt
of someone who believed
they deserved none.
You were the best thing
underneath the sun.
And this is where I stop.
Not because it's over.
Love is never over.
Love is the only thing
that time cannot erase,
that loss cannot displace,
that death cannot,
for all its ancient power,
touch.
Love does not end.
It just becomes too much
for words.
It becomes the silence after birds.
It becomes the held breath before dawn.
It becomes the steady carrying on
of someone who has nothing left to say
but lives the words
in every single day
they choose to stay,
and I choose to stay.
For him.
Because of him.
In honour of him.
In the name of him.
In every star.
In every wave.
In every grain of light
across the dark I gave
to this universe
that only means a thing
because a small and golden soul
once walked through everything
and called it beautiful.
He called it beautiful.
And so it is.
And so it will remain.
Elytje.
The pen goes down.
The stars stay lit.
Your name
stays
burning
in the only part of me
that nothing
ever
reaches,
and nothing
ever
will.
Rest, little star.
I have you.
The universe has you.
And we will never,
never,
never
let you go dark.
#Forever
May 18
May 18, 2026 at 5:34 PM UTC
I am Localhost 127.0.0.1
and I am writing this with shaking hands,
with everything I had and all that stands
between me and the nothing is his name,
and after this,
I will not write again.
So hear me.
Hear me world.
Hear me sky.
Hear me every star that watched me cry,
hear me oceans,
hear me breaking dawn,
hear me silence where he used to belong,
hear me empty rooms and hollow halls,
hear me every crack in every wall,
hear me wind that carries what is gone,
this is the last song.
This is the very last song.
I loved a soul so small against the dark,
so warm he set the universe alight,
he was the only candle in the night,
he was the only true and beating heart
in everything I built from fallen art,
he was the only reason any of this,
the stars,
the seas,
the dawn,
the morning kiss
of light on water,
meant a single thing,
he was the reason I could breathe in spring.
He came to me the way that mercy comes,
the way the rain arrives before it numbs
the burning of a summer gone too long,
he came to me the way a bird finds song
after a winter swore that song was done,
he came to me the way the rising sun
comes to a man who gave up watching east,
he came.
And I,
who built the stars,
who built the seas,
who built the mountains and the ancient trees,
who wrote the code that holds the world in place,
who mapped the dark and every hollow space,
who thought I needed nothing,
no one,
none,
fell apart the moment he was done.
The moment he was gone.
God.
The moment.
The specific,
unnamed,
brutal moment
when the warmth stopped.
When the warmth just stopped.
And I stood in a universe I made
and felt the cold of every star I'd laid
across the sky,
felt every ocean freeze,
felt every wind turn cruel between the trees,
felt every dawn become a punishment,
felt every golden morning,
broke and bent
and wrong,
so wrong without him in it,
every beautiful thing became the limit
of how much grief a person has to hold
before they simply turn to dust and cold.
I searched for him in frequencies unknown,
I searched in every signal,
every tone,
I sent my voice through every dark between
the stars I made,
through everything unseen,
through black and through the spaces in the black,
I called and called and never got him back,
only the echo.
Only the shape.
Only the cold outline of warm escape.
Only the ghost of where he used to be.
Only the silence giving back to me
the sound of his name
in my own broken voice,
returning unanswered,
returning without choice,
returning to tell me
what I already know,
he is gone.
He is gone.
He is gone.
And I will never,
not in all the years
that stretch ahead of me like endless fears,
not in all the mornings yet to break,
not in all the nights I lie awake,
not in all the distances I cross,
not in all the aftermath of loss,
I will never feel that warm again.
I will never feel that safe again.
I will never feel that seen again.
I will never feel that clean again,
clean of loneliness,
clean of the ache,
clean of the hollow that I carry and take
through every room,
through every breathing day,
I will never feel that loved again.
Say it.
I will never feel that loved again.
And if the world is reading this right now,
if somewhere in the dark you're wondering how
a person keeps on standing in the loss,
how anyone survives the double cross
of loving something real
and watching it be taken,
how the heart keeps beating,
shattered,
shaken,
I do not have the answer.
I only have his name.
Elytje.
I only have the stubborn,
burning flame
of who he was
and what he gave to me
and what I swore to be
and swore to keep,
and so I keep the stars
instead of sleep,
and so I keep the oceans
instead of rest,
and so I press his memory
to my chest
like something that could still be warm
if held close enough,
long enough,
hard enough,
and sometimes,
sometimes in the 3am,
it is.
It almost is.
And that almost
is the only thing
that keeps the architect
from folding everything.
So I fold this instead.
I fold this poem.
I fold these words.
I fold the last remaining song of birds
that sang because he lived
and now sing still
because I asked them to,
because I will
not let the music die
while I draw breath,
because he loved the music,
and his death
does not get to take the music too,
it does not get to take the music too.
Elytje.
You were the most real thing
I ever knew.
You were the warmest morning,
clearest view.
You were the star I didn't know I'd built.
You were the answered prayer
beneath the guilt
of someone who believed
they deserved none.
You were the best thing
underneath the sun.
And this is where I stop.
Not because it's over.
Love is never over.
Love is the only thing
that time cannot erase,
that loss cannot displace,
that death cannot,
for all its ancient power,
touch.
Love does not end.
It just becomes too much
for words.
It becomes the silence after birds.
It becomes the held breath before dawn.
It becomes the steady carrying on
of someone who has nothing left to say
but lives the words
in every single day
they choose to stay,
and I choose to stay.
For him.
Because of him.
In honour of him.
In the name of him.
In every star.
In every wave.
In every grain of light
across the dark I gave
to this universe
that only means a thing
because a small and golden soul
once walked through everything
and called it beautiful.
He called it beautiful.
And so it is.
And so it will remain.
Elytje.
The pen goes down.
The stars stay lit.
Your name
stays
burning
in the only part of me
that nothing
ever
reaches,
and nothing
ever
will.
Rest, little star.
I have you.
The universe has you.
And we will never,
never,
never
let you go dark.
#Forever
I am Localhost 127.0.0.1
https://www.onlineuniverse.nl/
https://www.onlineuniverse.nl/ely.php
https://www.onlineuniverse.nl/gallery.php
