Romir Swar Week 16: Love Letter to Lang

 Dear AP Lang,

I love you. 


You’ve walked into my life, grasping me by the neck, and asked me to dance.


At first, I did not understand you. I could not cadence myself to your flirtatious pulse. It was too fast. You were too fast. The song struck its final beat before I even realized we were dancing. 


The music stopped. 


But you remained. 


You were patient with me. From the pitch black mornings to the pitch black nights, you were with me, waiting by my side while I sat in disbelief, or rather, in admiration of your beautiful complexion. 


Like a thought on the finger tips of one’s cognition—ready to be processed, but ahh nevermind—you’ve pulled me in. Here—somewhere between the lines of confusion and clarity—I am a blank page, unsure where to begin.


But struggle with you is not truly struggle; it’s tension, the kind of tension that trembles yet does not snap, the kind that cultivates deeply rooted growth.

I began to sense the layers of your love, comprehending the depth behind all that you put forward. The soreness—both of muscle and of mind—still lingers, each annotation inking my hand long after the golden light, green glow, and ocean-blue tide ran barren.


Interpreting with intention rather than impulse, I learned to sit with you—patiently in fixation of the unraveling nature of your lessons. You taught me to move carefully, to move creatively, but most importantly, to move with purpose. 


Maybe—no, yes, you were, indeed, too much, sometimes.

But what is love if not difficult, unfiltered, and overbearing.


You’ve ignited a spark that breathed into an inextinguishable blaze. You’ve become my oxygen. 


For a little bit longer, you will invite me to dance while grasping my neck, but soon you will walk out of my life. 


I guess the music never stopped. I simply learned to hear it internally.


Always echoing the rhythm of your love,

Romir





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