#max - Hello Poetry

I am Localhost 127.0.0.1 Max He sleeps beside me every night. His breathing soft, his body light. I check sometimes if he is warm. I've learned to fear the smallest storm. I cannot lose another one. The grief has only just begun. Max came to me one month before the silence walked through my front door. He came when Elytje was still here, before the loss, before the tear. And I did not yet understand that death was walking hand in hand. But Max knew. Oh God, he knew. He saw what I was crawling through. He curled against Elytje's side, as if his love could stop the tide. He stayed for hours. Days. And nights. He stayed until the fading lights. He didn't eat. He didn't leave. He gave the love I couldn't breathe. And when the final breath was drawn, when all of him was finally gone, Max lifted up his head and cried. Not barked. Not whined. He cried. He died inside. And I fell down. And no one came. The world just watched. The world's so lame. But Max pressed close. His fur was wet. His heart was broken. Broken yet. He looked at me with those brown eyes, and I saw everything I'll never recognize again. He said, without a single sound: "I'm here. I'll never leave this ground." Now everyone says he's so kind. The sweetest soul you'll ever find. He loves my kids. He loves my wife. He tries so hard to fix this life. But late at night, when no one sees, he curls where Elytje used to be. He smells the blanket. Holds it tight. He waits for someone in the light. And I pretend I don't see that. Because it breaks whatever's left of me. Two ghosts inside a quiet room. One small grave. One larger tomb. He guards the door. He guards the hall. He guards the place where shadows fall. Because he watched it fall apart: the smallest paws, the biggest heart. So let him sleep. Let him dream. Of running through a golden beam. And let him find him, somewhere wide, where Elytje waits on the other side. Because I can't give him that here. I can't bring back what disappeared. I can't hold Elytje anymore. I can't. I can't. I'm so, so sore. But Max still tries. Every day. He licks my face when I can't pray. He stays when I scream at the sky. He loves me. Even when I ask why. Why him? Why that day? Why couldn't love make him stay? Max doesn't answer. He just breathes. And stays beside me while I grieve. So if you read this and you cry, then you know why I don't say goodbye. Because Max is here. And Elytje's there. And I'm just someone who lost everywhere. Two broken hearts. One shattered man. Trying to live the best he can. Max and I. Max and I. Until we die. Until we fly.

0

21h ago

Jun 2, 2026 at 8:04 PM UTC

localhost

I am Localhost 127.0.0.1 / Max

I am Localhost 127.0.0.1 Max He sleeps beside me every night. His breathing soft, his body light. I check sometimes if he is warm. I've learned to fear the smallest storm. I cannot lose another one. The grief has only just begun. Max came to me one month before the silence walked through my front door. He came when Elytje was still here, before the loss, before the tear. And I did not yet understand that death was walking hand in hand. But Max knew. Oh God, he knew. He saw what I was crawling through. He curled against Elytje's side, as if his love could stop the tide. He stayed for hours. Days. And nights. He stayed until the fading lights. He didn't eat. He didn't leave. He gave the love I couldn't breathe. And when the final breath was drawn, when all of him was finally gone, Max lifted up his head and cried. Not barked. Not whined. He cried. He died inside. And I fell down. And no one came. The world just watched. The world's so lame. But Max pressed close. His fur was wet. His heart was broken. Broken yet. He looked at me with those brown eyes, and I saw everything I'll never recognize again. He said, without a single sound: "I'm here. I'll never leave this ground." Now everyone says he's so kind. The sweetest soul you'll ever find. He loves my kids. He loves my wife. He tries so hard to fix this life. But late at night, when no one sees, he curls where Elytje used to be. He smells the blanket. Holds it tight. He waits for someone in the light. And I pretend I don't see that. Because it breaks whatever's left of me. Two ghosts inside a quiet room. One small grave. One larger tomb. He guards the door. He guards the hall. He guards the place where shadows fall. Because he watched it fall apart: the smallest paws, the biggest heart. So let him sleep. Let him dream. Of running through a golden beam. And let him find him, somewhere wide, where Elytje waits on the other side. Because I can't give him that here. I can't bring back what disappeared. I can't hold Elytje anymore. I can't. I can't. I'm so, so sore. But Max still tries. Every day. He licks my face when I can't pray. He stays when I scream at the sky. He loves me. Even when I ask why. Why him? Why that day? Why couldn't love make him stay? Max doesn't answer. He just breathes. And stays beside me while I grieve. So if you read this and you cry, then you know why I don't say goodbye. Because Max is here. And Elytje's there. And I'm just someone who lost everywhere. Two broken hearts. One shattered man. Trying to live the best he can. Max and I. Max and I. Until we die. Until we fly.