Heir to the Unchosen Hour Shirt

He walks like he’s late to a life he never chose.
The crochet clings like memory — heiry in places.
It was handmade, like most of his charm.
Looped together with good intentions and generational guilt.

He is a somnambulist in disguise —
alert, articulate, but not entirely awake.
He answers questions with questions. Smiles like punctuation.
The shirt looks awake, but he does not.
Its hue? Something between faded envy and steeped solitude.
Like moss pressed in diaries. Like green tea left too long.

He is never underdressed, only under-present.
You’ll find him on balconies, brooding over unread texts.
He wears the shirt not because he feels anything —
but because someone once told him he looked good in green.
And he remembers praise better than people.

He is drifting through days he never chose,
laced into a garment made by hands warmer than his own.
And though he moves, though he speaks,
he is still somewhere else —
a sleepwalker in crochet,
threaded together by posture, politeness, and barely.

Material- handyed and hand crocheted cotton linen blend