Just let me reach out…
Let me touch your face.
My contact delivers…
…Infection.
My fingers ooze…
…Execration.
You are but a mere fantasy.
I will pustulate….
…This fantasy…
…Into a stale emptyness.
Ripples, like the surface of water.
They blur out your form.
I shall reduce your form…
It is my contact.
It will…
…Cause you…
...To become…
...Nothing.