Make You Cry

Your laughter echoes deep into the night
and your smile haunts every room
like something I can’t quite hold.

Everything looks perfect from here.
Bacon done right, mornings in sync,
Chapstick on your lips when we kiss.

But underneath it all, something gnaws.

I’ve seen you bare and glistening,
awake before coffee,
makeup smeared across the sheets,
your scent mixed with yesterday’s regret.
And all I can think is:
I want to make you cry.

Not from cruelty.
From missing me.

I want to know that if I disappeared,
you’d feel the hole.
That the days without me
would ache like something physical,
something you can’t shake off
or fill with anything else.

I want your makeup to run.
I want tears on your face
so I can taste the salt
and know I matter.

We’ve been happy. Untested.
And that’s the thing that keeps me up—
this fear that it’s all surface,
that the ease of us
means I’m replaceable.

Make me wrong.
Cry because you miss me.
Cry because the emptiness without me
is more than you can stand.

That’s all I want.
To know I’m in the place
where both the smiles and tears are stored.