All the Suns I Saved for Later 🌞

All the suns I saved for later

are stuffed in the back of my calendar,

glowing faintly behind rescheduled plans

and dentist appointments.

“We should go sometime,” I said,

to beaches, to cities, to you.

I kept pinning bright circles

on days that never learned our names.

There’s the sun I promised myself

for when I’d finally be “better,”

a golden afternoon bookmarked

with a sticky note that just says, “soon.”

Another one waits over a mountain hike

We never woke up early enough to start,

sunrise caught in the snooze button,

yawning itself back into night.

My weather app says “partly cloudy,”

but inside I’m hoarding forecasts—

whole weeks of light I postponed

because I hadn’t earned them yet.

Lately I’ve been afraid

they’ll all expire at once,

spilling out like oranges from a broken bag,

rolling into years I won’t be able to reach.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll pick one

and crack it open over an ordinary morning,

let the yolk of it run messy on the floor,

just to see how it feels

to stand in something warm

I didn’t have to deserve.