A speaker admires someone called Luksi and, in the same breath, quietly measures themselves against them. The colors do a lot of the work: Luksi is green, the speaker is blue, and blue here seems to mean sadness as much as color. The speaker repeats that Luksi is pretty, then pushes it further, "very pretty," "the prettiest," as if the admiration is growing past what they can hold.
Then something shifts. Luksi is not happy, and the speaker doesn't know why. That puzzle sits oddly beside all the praise, because being pretty hasn't made Luksi content. The short, simple sentences read like a child's voice, or someone stripped down to the plainest words they have.
The ending is the sharpest part. "Luksi is Luksi" feels like a fact of identity, and then "Not me" lands by itself. The speaker seems to long to be someone else, or at least to be seen as enough. The mood is gentle, wistful, and a little lonely.