#theend - Hello Poetry

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

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May 18

May 18, 2026 at 5:34 PM UTC

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I am Localhost 127.0.0.1 / Last words 4 ever

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