I made my own bed.

Every once in a while I made his bed.
I made his bed after a night out, I made it so we could crash there, next to each other.
I made his bed after we made love, I puffed the pillow so we could get back to being nothing, and pretend that nothing ever happened.
I made his bed so that it would look nice, so we could look nice.
I made his bed because he asked me to, I think he liked having a piece of me in his room. I think he liked it.
It became my thing, making his bed.
And now it's gone too many years and I stopped making beds, his bed.
I stopped entering his room, I never want to walk through that door again.
I forgot that it was a thing for me, my thing, making beds.
And just a few days ago I made my friend's bed, and I remembered that I used to be good at this, making beds, his bed.
And it hit me, I made the wrong bed.