Soon It Will Be Sunday

by Lang Leav

With care and vulnerability, novelist and poet Lang Leav explores what it means to live a purpose-filled life as a woman in search of fulfillment and visibility. 

Through poetry, micro-essays, and ruminations, Soon It Will Be Sunday delves into the purpose and impact of the interpersonal attachments that women form during different stages of their lives. Internationally bestselling author Lang Leav reflects on the perilous and winding road of being a woman, contending with the conflicting messages we receive from society, and the choices we make that ultimately define us, while also addressing the narrowing options women face with the passing of time.
 
Deeply personal and all too relatable, Soon It Will Be Sunday aims to provide a mirror for women to see and be seen no matter which era of womanhood you are currently navigating.

Genres: Poetry

88 pages, Kindle Edition

Published October 14, 2025

About the author

Novelist and poet Lang Leav was born in a refugee camp when her family were fleeing the Khmer Rouge Regime. She spent her formative years in Sydney, Australia, in the predominantly migrant town of Cabramatta. Among her many achievements, Lang is the winner of a Qantas Spirit of Youth Award, Churchill Fellowship and Goodreads Reader’s Choice Award.

Lang has been featured on CNN, NPR, SBS Australia, Intelligence Squared UK, Radio New Zealand and in various publications, including Lithub, Vogue, Newsweek, the Straits Times, the Guardian, and the New York Times.

Reviews

[Yves V.H. [Slow reading] · Rating 2 out of 5]

Disappointment is not even enough word to describe how I feel with this collection. I was at work while reading this and even my co-worker was dissatisfied with Lang Leav. I feel like she just writes whatever comes to her head and say it is poetic. There is no creativity in Lang Leav's words. I feel that her works have downgraded ever since her debut as a poet. You can't just type in a sentence and say it is emotional. What's even more ridiculous was when she compared herself to a machinery such as refrigerator and said keep me for my parts. Seriously? Seriously?? We're serious at comparing yourself to a used refrigerator? Well, go on then. I'm not even to start with the salt analogy. All her analogies sounds stupid.

She may think that she is being expressive but lately I feel that her works are now just cash grabs and there really isn't much thought put into these anymore. If you are still a fan of Lang Leav, maybe you should ask yourself why. What joy does she bring you?

I'm glad that I have the privilege to read this book for free because not in a million years I would spend a penny on this.

[Elvina Zafril · Rating 3 out of 5]

Lang Leav’s poetry has always felt like a quiet conversation. It's soft, emotional and easy to connect with. Soon It Will Be Sunday carries that same familiar voice, exploring love, womanhood and the passage of time with her signature tenderness.

Some poems are beautiful in their simplicity. They are offering small truths that feel comforting and real. But as a whole, this collection didn’t stand out as much as her earlier works for me. A few pieces felt repetitive and the emotional depth varied. While some poems hit home, others passed quickly without much impact.

Still, Soon It Will Be Sunday is a gentle and soothing read. It's perfect for when you need something light but heartfelt. I appreciate the sincerity behind her words, even if this one didn’t leave a lasting impression.

[Cherlynn | cherreading · Rating 2 out of 5]

✨ "I am a beacon of my own happiness."

Say what? Very thin (literally and figuratively) collection and so underwhelming compared to the author's other works, which had a more distinct theme and mood. I cannot remember a single poem in this book now that it's been over a week since I read it.

I sent my friend a photo of the above quote and she said: "kill trees for nothing".

[Reilly Ingleson · Rating 2 out of 5]

Offering
For the women of Bali
We arrange flowers for my daylight offering,
neatly ordered, like seeing time: frangipani,
marigold, yang-ylang, and hibiscus.
My guide, Oshin, says, this is caning sari.
She dresses me in a ceremonial sarong,
shows me how to kneel in reverence
at this ancient place I have come to,
where the time lapses into memory,
my palms turned upward to the sky,
where holy water drips from my fingers.
She says, here we cultivate our gardens
tp appease the gods, in gratitude,
we saw and bear and bloom, toil in their honor.
When Oshin speaks the name of the sun god Surya,
He comes surging through the clouds,
His face an orb of such an astonishing light
even the hummingbird is stilled - I see
a hand reaching across the threshold
of existence, ever searching for mine.
At the altar before me, I place my offering.
(pg. 11)

Soon It Will Be Sunday
On a perfect Monday morning, I am already self-destructing. It is
only the start of the week, but it feels like the end.

You say, we still have until Sunday, and then, we have the rest of
our lives.

But soon it will be Sunday and you'll getting on that plane.

Soon it will be Sunday and I'm going to lose you forever.

You could never lose me, you say, but you're wrong about that.

People are the easiest thing to lose.
(pg. 15)

Immortality
I will make you immortal in the way of poets and vampires. Haunt the darkest corners of your memories. Appear before you as you are doomscrolling down the endless abyss, tripping into rabbit holes, finding me in places you never thought I'd be. You will recognize the words, see yourself as in a mirror. Feel the burning heat of my attention for that one glorious moment, knowing you could have had me for as long as you wanted. Through me, you can live forever. But only if I say your name.
(pg. 21)

Nothing as Fleeting
Wonderstruck, sleepwalking into
this maddening love,
I saw a light unlike any other.
Under the guise of anonymity,
Venus and the crescent moon,
I walked through hellfire
to find you, to be with you.
I would burn for all eternity
if I could stay here for the night,
stay until every star burns out,
but even stars are finite.
You can say forever, if you want to,
but you and I both know,
nothing is as fleeting.
(pg. 27)

The Process
The process of writing acts as a coagulant. Find your words where the wound still gushes.
(pg. 35)

Showing Up
I was present that warm, balmy night, in a way I hadn't been in such a long time. I stood under the blazing night sky, electrified by my own aliveness, every fiber of my skin, alight. It was akin to falling in love, as though I had arrived in some small way to a moment, a place that had been marked for me. As though God himself had wedged this turn of events into my life for a reason, had made me see what I had been resisting. Revealed to me when I least expected that life can still astonish me. As long as I keep showing up.
(pg. 47)

The Beauty of Writing
Day after day, you approach the blank page with all your terror and apprehension, despite proving your anxieties wrong time and again. Still, you'd rather be doing anything else, anything to delay the inevitable. Times like this, you must force yourself to write, even if it is just one word. Sometimes a word is all it takes to open the floodgates, for something to take over and then you - not quite knowing how - will feel the words surging, as though a dam has burst somewhere in the center of your soul. This is the beauty of writing.
(pg. 49)

As a Poet
As a poet, I feel it all at once. This is the only was I know how to be. I am both the heart and the heartbreak, the one who leaves but never does.

The jilted lover and the knife in the back.
(pg.51)

Lighthouses
Jagged rocks, a siren's call,
we are the saddest part of every story,
the shipwreck of every scene.
We are the seas apart and the lighthouses for each other,
a confluence of distance and danger,
one splendid eye gazing into the ether -
another searching, always searching.
We are the tide throwing ourselves onto the shore,
to be wrestled back, full of longing.
We are outstretched fingers and acrobats plunging,
barely touching, never holding.
(pg. 59)

By Touch
In the dark, I reach into my drawer with intention. I know the exact size, shape, texture, and weight of the item I seek. I don't turn on the light -there is no need to see what I am looking for. There are certain things we know by touch. People we reach for in the dark, with the same depth of knowing.
(pg. 63)

Incomplete
It is not finished
it is not complete:
this life,
this love,
this book,
this poem.
(pg. 69)

Depth of Love
Love does not grow outward,
like a sapling gently unfurling.
It goes inward like the roots of a tree,
piercing deeper and deeper.

And when you burrow into this
dark and dangerous place,
you find things about yourself,
things about your man -
uncut gems and buried bones.
(pg. 87)

The Manuka Tree
Late one evening, a storm tore through my garden, sudden and vicious. The wind roared long into the restless night, rattling windows and banging shutters. I thought about the woods outside of my house, the titokis and pohutukawas, the Manuka tree by my bedroom window. The creatures that inhabited the forest, the gurgling this and silvereyes, their tiny birdsongs beating.. The wildflowers blooming for the bees and butterflies.

I rose early the next morning, steeled myself for the damage and was relieved to find my garden largely unscathed when I noticed to my dismay, the Manuka tree had borne the brunt of the damage, its branches snapped like spindly arms, hanging limp and broken, pale patches mottled its trunk where the storm had scraped the bark clean away.

All day, I thought about the Manuka tree and what it had endured, how it had stood up to the storm like a proud and weary sentry and against dimming light, the lengthening shadows, I caught the sinking sun throwing the last of its fiery glow onto the raw, pale patches where the Manuka had been stripped, the tree, suddenly aflame, as though lit from within.I found myself touched by this moment of unexpected beauty. I thought, how strange it was for a living thing to be battered ad broken, to remain quietly resolute. And aren't we all like that? Daaged and battle scarred, yet somehow luminous, the way the world can sometimes tilt our way for one miraculous moment and render our wounds into light.
(pg. 95)

Parallel Worlds
I believe in parallel worlds because you and I exist in every one of
my stories, anywhere love blooms between two people, across
space and time.

There is only you, and there is only me.
(pg. 97)

If I Were to Describe Love,
It Would Be This

You watch me upload a video on Instagram, then delete it within
the first few minutes. You tell me I have nothing to prove but
I am already wracked with anxiety. I pore through my email,
unsubscribe from mailing lists, check my spam folder in case
there is something crucial I've missed. I add soap powder and
toothpaste to my online shopping list. Do you want anything? I
ask. You smile, Only you. I scrutinize my shopping cart, agonizing
over what to remove, what to keep, adding and subtracting from
my self-worth. And that night, as I lay awake, my brain chewing
itself raw, full of worry, I woke you up and you, without a word, sat
up and turned on the light, let me talk for as long as I had to.
(pg. 101)

The Soul of a Poet
Anyone can write a scene that stirs the imagination. A hand
placed here, an elbow there, an open window and curtain
billowing, a silhouette against a sunset wall - but it takes the soul
of a poet to infuse these vignettes with feeling.
(pg. 103)

Absolution
True love does not absolve you, the way we were led to believe.
Instead, it shines a light in every corner of your darkest self, all
the troubled reflections of your psyche, broken things you never
got around to fixing. It shakes out all your ghosts, asks you to
confront the deepest parts of yourself. True love is a karmic force
that will give and take in accordance with the universal ledger. At
its core true love is Judgement, our highest calling. The same of our
deeds - both good and evil - will determine the breadth and time
of this love.
(pg. 105)

How Long
How long will you stay? he asks.
She answers, For as long as there is poetry here.
(pg. 109)

My Ghosts
I hope I never lose the thing that keeps me centered, that
balances me out. I know what it's like to spin out of control, to
bang on the door of my past self, not being able to intervene. I
know how it feels to be two wildly conflicting people inhabiting
the same body. I envy those who are firmly anchored in
themselves, who do not have this internal struggle. Those who are
never haunted by the ghosts of they other selves.
(pg. 115)

Shapes
We name things according to the shapes they inhabit. Starfruit,
bellflowers, and candy hearts. And my love - a flimsy, moving
thing, stretches around you, pulls you in like a lasso. It is only in
the meeting of your heart that I have come to know the shape
of my own.
(pg. 125)

Order
I was born into chaos, carried across a tide that threatened to
turn at any moment. I have lived my whole life trying to establish
order. Alphabetizing my books. Compartmentalizing my lovers.
Putting pictures into boxes, shutting away parts of myself into
drawers. Cataloguing synchronicities. Creating schedules and
spreadsheets, an endless list of longings I could never hope to
check off. But all this pales in comparison to the discipline of
writing. The act of organizing my thoughts. What makes better
sense of disorder than that?
(pg. 135)

Crux
There is a wish for which I am waiting. SO, I write poetry in my
dreams. My life is a sentence I keep deconstructing. Yet, I still
don't know how to name you. I think you are chaos, a whisper into
the void. I think you are entropy - the world falling into ruin. I think
you are the inevitable, the relentless forward motion of time. I
think you are love, I think you are light, I think you are the crux of
everything.
(pg. 137)

This Place of Refuge
Our love remains on neutral ground. Battles must be fought
elsewhere.

Here we commune and muse about our other selves, the ugliness
of our egos, words spoken in anger - we only know we don't
mean them once they are said. We relinquish our greatest fears,
acknowledge our wrongs, make apologies for the countless ways
we have hurt each other; the foundations we have laid to ruin.

We dress each other's wounds, replenish our provisions. Go back
to the battlefield with the knowledge we will always have this
place of refuge in which we can return.
(pg. 141)

The Happiest
Maybe there is no other story beyond what is unfolding for you
now. Maybe this moment isn't the present, but a place you have
come back to, for it was here when you were the happiest.
(pg. 143)

[parareads · Rating 3 out of 5]

Reading Lang Leav reminds me of the time when I used to write poems myself, though mine were in Malay. This book collects Lang Leav’s writings that revolve around grief and loss, yet beneath all that sorrow, there’s still a sense of hope quietly waiting at the end of the road.

The 3️⃣ Things:

💙𝑻𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒕𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇.
Some poems like Creativity, As A Poet, The Process, and Still Here highlight the struggles of writers in creating their work. The act of writing itself isn’t easy, and Lang Leav captures that restlessness beautifully. Personally, I really liked As A Poet and Still Here.

💙𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒊𝒕 𝒂 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆.
As an immigrant, Lang Leav doesn’t shy away from writing about that experience, like in her poem A Letter To My Mother at Immigration:

“𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒,
𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒷𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈.”

There are also poems that touch on love and relationships. The loss of Whiskey, her family’s beloved dog, is also immortalized in a touching poem titled Whiskey.

💙𝑨 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒚 𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔.
I don’t know about you, but for me, when I read poetry, I always read it out loud so I can clearly hear and feel.. it just hits differently that way. Even though I feel her earlier works cut deeper, #SoonItWillBeSunday still carries that emotional weight, sad, but full of hope.

✍🏻: @langleav
🖨️: @andrewsmcmeel
📄: 160
⭐️: 3.8/5

Thank you miss Putri @putrifariza and @times.reads for giving me the opportunity to read this copy. ☁️🩵💙 #parareads #parabaca #timesreads #langleav #bookstagram #poetry

[aemynadira · Rating 4 out of 5]

Soon It Will Be Sunday is a collection of poems & short reflections that feels like stepping into a quiet room where your emotions finally have space to speak. Lang Leav writes with her usual softness, but there's a more grounded, lived-in feeling to this book, like someone looking back on the experiences that shaped them with clearer eyes. The whole collection carries a gentle pace, perfect for slow days when you want to read something that sits with you rather than rushes past.

What really pulled me in was how deeply the pieces resonate without trying too hard. Leav touches on what it means to grow yourself as a woman, to love deeply, to lose, to heal, & to pick yourself back up after the world has knocked you around a little. The poems feel honest, almost like admissions from someone learning to make peace with their past. Among the many pieces, my favorites: With You, Immortality, Absolution, & Crux, each carry a different shade of tenderness & reflection. They left a soft echo, the kind you return to when you need a line or two to steady your heart.

By the time I closed the book, I felt like it had reminded me of the strength that grows in the cracks. How we keep going, keep feeling, keep hoping. There's a bittersweetness to the writing, but also a sense of moving forward with intention. If you're drawn to poetry that's heartfelt, approachable, & gently empowering, this feels like a warm hand on your shoulder, reminding you that you're allowed to grow at your own pace.

[Lyana A. · Rating 3 out of 5]

It’s been a long while since I last picked up a Lang Leav book. The last one I read was Love Looks Pretty on You back in 2019. There was a time when her words understood my feelings better than I ever could, when her poetry felt like it was written for the exact version of me I was back then.

I’ve always had a soft spot for poetry. I love it, I admire it, and I deeply respect how difficult it is to write good poetry. I once heard someone say that “poetry is a novel condensed into a page,” and while I know some poems stretch beyond that, the idea really stayed with me. It made me realise just how layered, delicate, and complex poetry truly is.

In this collection, there were a few poems I found quite alright, moments where I could feel her emotions seeping through the lines. She writes about love, betrayal, her pet Whiskey, and even the ginkgo tree. Individually, some of them work, but as a whole, nothing really stayed with me. There’s a quiet sadness threaded throughout the collection, yet none of it fully captured my heart.

And I can’t help but wonder, have I outgrown her words? Is that even possible?😅
Or maybe this collection simply felt a little underwhelming compared to her earlier works, which had a stronger sense of theme and mood. Either way, this one didn’t quite linger the way I hoped it would.

[Payton Box · Rating 5 out of 5]

Lang Leav writes about love, life, and struggles in a way that just clicks for me. It sits so easily and she puts thoughts and sayings into my head that lasts for over a decade in some cases. This one was no different, I love the poems she writes where in some she had clearly found a beautiful, healthy love, but then in others, it feels like it’s broken, shattered, and so much more. Whether she is writing about multiple people, fictional people, or more, she captures the human experience in love in poems that I just adore. My favorites of this collection are Salt Mill, Whiskey, Relationship, and The Bitter End

[Bellatuscana Bellatuscana · Rating 5 out of 5]

This book shows a massive growth from some of Lang Leav’s earlier poetry books. I’ve always found her to be a bit too kitschy and Mary Sue for my taste. These poems show a lot more of her maturity, and they go in depth to a lot of emotions on love and betrayal. I especially loved her poems about traveling in Bali, her pets; and the gingko tree. This is the kind of book that I would end up purchasing at some point, because a lot of them are reflective. As someone who has previously loved to hate on Lang Leav, I really admire this book!

[Kendrich Fetalvero · Rating 4 out of 5]

Was shocked when I saw that the last one was called "Almost November" because I was reading this in October 31. Anyways, I actually just randomly picked this book when I was scurrying in fully booked. I was trying to find a specific poem by Lisel Mueller but ended up with this instead. All in all it was a good read and would definitely recommend it to others!

"I believe in parallel worlds because you and I exist in every one of my stories, anywhere love blooms between two people, across space and time.

There is only me, and there is only you"" - Lang Leav

[Daija Smith · Rating 4 out of 5]

The poems on Whiskey and being the child of a refugee household captured my heart, I love Lang Leav’s writing and have read every poetry and prose book written by her, watching her and her life develop through her writing is always fascinating, I appreciate the rawness and introspection she depicts in this particular piece, it makes me think of my own life and those that I love. I can’t wait for the next one!

[Rhina M. Finley · Rating 5 out of 5]

Soon It Will Be Sunday is a collection of beautifully written poetry by Lang Leav. She writes with passion and reverence. Lang Leav gives more insight into her own personal experiences and reflections through her gift of writing ✍🏾! So if you love poetry pick this gem 💎 up!

[Jeline · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5 stars.

I’m a long time Lang fan but I didn’t love this book as much as I loved her previous ones.

[Emily · Rating 2 out of 5]

Disappointing. I have been a longtime fan of Lang Leav but this book did not hit the mark. It felt obvious and surface level.

[Jen · Rating 5 out of 5]

I will read Lang Leav’s grocery lists.

I cried a lot.

[Teena Chumber · Rating 1 out of 5]

Meh!

[Maryjo · Rating 3 out of 5]

not my fave lang leav book but i love it

[Jennith Chen · Rating 3 out of 5]

“Soon it will be Sunday and I'm going to lose you forever.
You could never lose me, you say, but you're wrong about that. People are the easiest thing to lose.”

[Norah Leighton · Rating 4 out of 5]

I love her writing and this was wonderful.

[louloutereadin · Rating 2 out of 5]

I was expecting way more from the summary. But I hated fhe writing and some of it didn’t made any sense to me

[lizzy · Rating 4 out of 5]

She kinda got me from the very first page. I’m a huge fan of ms. leav she a cool lady I think.

[A. · Rating 3 out of 5]

The collection explores themes of grief and loss in Lang Leav’s writing, but even within the sorrow, a gentle hope remains, waiting to be found.

[Arwen Mikaela · Rating 2 out of 5]

idk, not my typical cup

[mikayla hawkins · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5 ⭐️

[Nicole · Rating 5 out of 5]

Favorite poems:
Redirection, Whiskey (dog name), The Other Woman

With You:
"All you want to know is was there someone? Just one person you could look in the eye and say, with you I did everything right."

Shapes:
"It is only in the meeting of your heart that I have come to know the shape of my own."