Not shape,
not color,
not form—
but something before those.
A thought before it knew itself,
a breath before air learned edges,
a sound before silence decided
to break or to hold.
The blue is not water,
but it drowns.
The gold is not fire,
but it burns.
The green is not earth,
but it lingers—
heavy, pressing,
soft where it should be hard,
hard where it should be gone.
Do not name it.
It is not waiting to be named.
