Evaporated

Lyrics

The house is breathing.
Two seventeen in the morning.
Seventy-one degrees on the thermostat.
And in the hallway, your fifteen-watt glow.
A tiny, patient sun.

I remember twisting your little white cap.
That tiny snap of the factory seal.
A puff of solvent, a promise of "Clean Linen."
The glass was cool in my hand.
I pushed you up into the warmer, the two prongs finding their home.
A solid click.
And your polyester wick, a clean white nerve,
began its slow work.
Drinking the oil, breathing it into the warm air.

And you just evaporate.
A measured, steady breath, day after day.
The level in the glass falls, a slow tide pulling away from the shore of the wick.
There is no way to fill you again.
You were made to be emptied.
You were designed to be gone.

Point eight ounces of a feeling I was supposed to have.
And the plastic collar they gave you...
that clever little key molded right into your neck.
Shaped for one lock in all the world.
A secret handshake with the wall.
Engineered to break if I ever tried to save you,
to give you a second life with some cheaper oil.
Someone drew a line on a diagram in 1998 and said, "here, it dies here."

And you just evaporate.
A measured, steady breath, night after night.
The level in the glass falls, a slow tide pulling away from the shore of thewick.
There is no way to fill you again.
You were made to be emptied.
You were designed to be gone.

The scent is thin now.
A ghost of cotton in the dark.
Did it work? Did the house feel cleaner?
Or did I just pay to watch a thing be used up?
Another perfect, single-use container,
warming itself to death so I could forget the dust for a little while.
And now I can't remember the smell.
I only remember watching the oil level drop.

The wick is bone-white and dry.
The glass is clear, a little greasy inside.
The light is still on.
The warm, dumb light is still on.
But you're not there anymore.
You're just... evaporated.