She had tried to paint the poet.

Put him into color, but he was too complex. Some nights he was yellow. Vibrant as the sun, blinding with his persona. But then she’d sense his indecision and his luminosity would diminish. He’d turn pallid, sunken, blue.

Blue. The color she always came back to. Azure, turquoise, sapphire, cerulean... she’d strip him in her mind of his bravado. Reduce him to hues of the sea.

But just when she thought she'd figured him out, Viggo would surprise her. His temper would flare and he’d fume for days. He would be red, burning flames in contrast to the cool blue that flowed from his patience and compassion.

And the slow discovery of Viggo’s tumultuous depth hidden beneath the waves would recede with the tide as she realized she didn't know him at all.

It wasn’t until Elizabeth discovered Viggo’s unfinished poems that she understood him. He had left a mix of poems behind accidentally. She was cleaning; one of her jobs on Poetry Night, collecting the myriad of papers and the folder had drifted to the floor, spilling. She knelt, shuffling them together, words catching her eye.

With desperation I ache
the pain of alone
the silence in the night
the demons I cannot shake

Lost time, lost names, lost love, lost pain
at least pain reminds me I live
but now I am nothing but lost...

Elizabeth flushed; she recognized some, but many of these were poems Viggo had never shared in public. She sat on the edge of the couch, reading. They were unlike anything she had heard.

A knock made her heart leap.

“Viggo,” her voice cracked when she saw his face in the doorway. She quickly stuffed the papers behind her. She wouldn’t be caught reading his private poems.

“Elizabeth,” he acknowledged her with a small smile. They knew each other vaguely through friends. “I was just looking for papers I left, have you seen a yellow folder?” He looked nervous.

“No,” she answered quickly; the embarrassment of being caught made her lie. Seeing the look of disappointment, she knew Viggo was anxious to get them back. She couldn’t blame him, what little she had read showed a very different side of the man the world knew.

“Well if you run across anything could you let me know?” he asked guardedly.

She nodded and Viggo turned to go. Feeling guilty but overwhelmed with curiosity Elizabeth read the poems again. Sifting through them, reading, she memorized the verses that struck a chord in her mind.

The next day, Liz watched to make sure Viggo found them again, having tucked them into a pile of his books to sign. She smiled, seeing the look of relief on his face as he opened the folder.

After her discovery Elizabeth began to pay more attention to the poems Viggo read, listening when he talked with others. Never did he give a hint of the pain she found in those words. But what she did sense was... uncertainty. She would see the look in his eyes, reflecting the words only she had seen.

Finally Elizabeth began to paint with the blues she had been tempted to use to capture the brooding poet.

With sadness, she washed the canvas in hues of cerulean. Viggo sank below waves of indigo water, his arms outstretched towards the surface, just fingertips from reaching air. His eyes cast upward towards the sunlight that lightened the water around him into turquoise, but he was unable to see the surface. Slowly the air left his body, bubbles drifting up and away, carrying phrases from the poems she had found that no one would ever hear. He was drowning from the weight of his words that he would not share.

The irony of the painting escaped her, for as the painter, Elizabeth would not share her work. She was too unsure to risk critique. She paid her bills by working at galleries and bookstores, surrounding herself with inspiration, but never revealing herself.

~~~

Viggo stared at the painting. Whoever painted this knew his secrets. Whoever painted this understood him, and as he read the poems trapped in the bubbles as he drowned, he felt the weight of it. He nearly couldn’t breathe.

Elizabeth slipped into the back before the poetry reading to hide her paintings, only to have Viggo turn and see her. She froze, her eyes shifted to the picture and then she dropped her head in obvious submission. v “You?” Her presence striking recognition in his mind, “Elizabeth...”

All Elizabeth could do was nod. Viggo turned and looked at the picture again, Elizabeth watching him, the object of her painting considering himself.

He spoke quietly, “I am drowning. I didn’t feel it until I saw this. No one has ever really seen... me.”

Elizabeth had been trying to think of a way to apologize, but all she could do was look at him.

“Do I ever reach the surface? Or do I continue to sink?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

Viggo paused in contemplation. Then he turned, revelations about Elizabeth now surfacing with revelations about himself. “No one knows you paint.”

Elizabeth flushed, she could feel his gaze, and without meeting his eyes she simply shook her head no.

“We both have secrets...,” Viggo smiled wryly, “I think it’s time we both swim for the surface.”

“Viggo! What are you doing?” Elizabeth turned, watching Viggo reach for the canvas.

~~~

That night changed them both forever.

Viggo, against Elizabeth’s protests, shared the painting with those who had come for the poetry reading claiming since it was of him he had the right.

The crowd filled with art patrons... Elizabeth’s talent no longer a secret... and in equity for his revelation, Viggo shared his hidden poems, finally shedding light on his darkness.

Both souls were bared, first to each other, then onstage.

Nothing left to hide behind, marking the night Viggo and Elizabeth found themselves.

And each other.