Writing in an old place

A thought has a mouth. When I let it speak, it multiplies. One half goes back to its hole, the other one spreads like spores and sticks to the corners of the room. Then waits patiently. It comes back when it finds me empty. To grab on to me tightly. In that way, rooms nest memories. The biggest struggle with writing in such rooms is to lose the hold. In a new place, writing flows like water.