I saw her today, where I normally do, three rows down; but only glimpses, when she's standing and looking back, amidst the crowd.

She's always smiling. That glint in her eyes brings me to a place I haven't been in a while. It's somewhere I can never go back to. It's pain and pleasure contorted into something perverted.

She's always smiling. But when she's not, her eyes, light gray—lustering in shades of blue—reach out to ensnare my own. I can't turn away, but I don't want to. If only I could be discreet, if only I was invisible, but I'm not, and I'm caught every time. I'm always a split-second too late.

She knows.

She knows I'm here. I need to know she knows.

I'm here every week, watching my team battle it out on the oval. Tackling, crashing, leaping, pummeling to the ground. Flying. Soaring, like birds of prey. I used to come for the wins, but now I come for her.

She knows of me, but she doesn't know me. She's probably disgusted. I'm ugly, twisted, full of guile, duplicitous. I missed out on the lottery—my hand is unimpressive, unlike hers, a royal flush. Men adore her. She only need but smile. I, on the other hand, have to grovel, on my knees. It's unfair, it's shit, but that's life. Deal with it. Have some cement and toughen the fuck up!

One day, I'd emerge from my chrysalis, into a world where you won't be fucked over for your lousy hand. Where the only things that matter are what really matter: respect, trust, and love for your fellow man or woman.

One day, she'll see me, for more than I appear.

She'll love me.

She'll even worship the ground I walk, like the lowly caterpillar paying homage to the butterfly.

Until then, I'll love her from afar, secretly, in plain sight.