Tell me what you see when you look at me.
My eyes? My pert, soft buttocks? My beer belly?
Do you even see anything at all?
Maybe, you don't even register me. Maybe, I just walk past you and you walk past me and we both just ignore each other.
There is no special recognition, not a hint of longing or regret.
Just a casual, accidental bump because you were on the phone talking to some random ***** named Trish.
Or, maybe, just maybe, what you see, sets your libido on fire.
You can't bear to look at me because it's like looking at the sun;
You think that if you stare too long, your  eyes will burn and you'll go blind.
You're afraid that one more fevered look in my direction will be the last one it takes to make you jump on me with such lust as to make Casanova weep.  I dunno,
Maybe it's not as bad as that.
Maybe what you see makes you remember those long weekends spent by the lakeside, reading poetry and discovering what it means to love yourself again.
Maybe you just take a quick peek to get you through the day even though your heart wants to stare forever.
Hell, it might even be the genuine article:
That be all and end all,
The one true form,
That greatest thing:
Love at first sight.
Or, y'know, maybe you were just looking at that hobo behind me, vomiting into a bin.