Is this a poem?

Wrinkled sheets

The sheets are white, perfectly wrinkled. They’ll never not be perfectly wrinkled.

They’re where we love on one another, where I bare myself to you. Where we dream, and rest, and cry.

What once seemed so simple and boring now makes my eyes sting.

I imagine, sort of a nightmare scenario in which you’re suddenly gone and all I can do is lay in these perfectly imperfect wrinkled sheets and inhale, desperately trying to smell you.

Don’t ever leave.

I may never sleep again.

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