You keep asking me
why I still haven’t married.
This time, I didn’t find it funny.
I looked around me for some answers:
Perhaps they’re written in my poems.
Perhaps they’re sketched in my paintings.
Perhaps they’re framed in my films.
I tried hard to remember
if this is what I chose:
the camera instead of the casserole,
the canvas instead of the cradle,
the metaphor instead of a mate.
You’re still asking me
why I still don’t have a partner.
Never in my whole life
did I consider being single
as a curse.
I won’t look around for a while
even if you ask one more time.
The answer might still be long in coming.