These are real things.

This is a dream.

This is waking up alone to a red dawn and a red floor with a red blanket and the smell of red wafting through the red tinged air.

I had a dream about you last night.

This is about being alive about being not alive.

This is a dream.

This is waking up.

I should have added it to my list.
Then I remembered that my list went when you disappeared.

For all I know, my list went with you.

This is red.
These are red trees, red grass, red water.
Red rain.

Lists are very useful.
The memories you left behind are here, in my head.
Are you happy to know that?

Before you went, I was able to list who I was.
I was able to list why I was.

Now I don't know who I am, or why I am.
Are you happy to know that too?

These are the remnants of humanity, tall and proud, silhouetted against a heavy red. This is proof of humanity's downfall, hidden behind black buildings.

I saw you. Swaying.
Swaying in the breeze, while red dripped to the floor.
I'm very accustomed to red.

This is the painful past.
This is the past without pain.

I watched it roll.

The red.

Roll down your jacket pants shoes floor.

In that order.

Slowly.

These are the trees. They stand proud. Proud and tall and arrogant. Bending to the breeze.

Much like you.

This is you; tall and proud and arrogant. And red.
This is lots of red.

I sometimes wonder if dreams have a point.

Humans had a dream. Look where it got them.

This is Chaos. She's a good friend of humanity.
This is her laughing and sniggering as humans tread her new realm with heavy feet.

They should know by now that their world is breakable. They should know that they are to blame.

This is waking up alone to a world of destruction and pointlessness.
This is humanity realising that they are mere pawns in a game of life.
This is your fault.
These are your memories.

Who should I blame?

The red is strong here.
This I know.
These are your memories, tainted red.

I don't like red.

This red is like the sky all those years ago.
This is pain.
These are hands and knees on a floor.
This is a memory that holds the past, or maybe the past holding a memory.
This is you, swaying.
Those are red.

This is why I need a list.

These memories are all fragmented.
Like the people. These memories of people places things are disorganised. Like the buildings.

Lists keep things organised.

Humanity didn't have a list.

No wonder they disappeared.

Like you.

These memories tumble and fall.
Rolling down to the ground.
This memory is of you. This memory is real.
This memory is fake.

I don't know much.

I do know that red and black don't compliment each other.

This I also know.
This red is going. It's dripping away.

Rather fast.

Hands floor.

Just like that.

Faster than you.

This red is going, slowly replaced by black.
This black is comforting.

There is nothing left to list now.

Lists are useless when there is nothing to put on them.
When there's nothing to keep ordered.

I'm going to sleep.

I might dream again.

Of you.

Red black.

Red black red.

This time, I'll write it down.

Black.