Love or Sazarac?

Like burning incense  
I find that you surround me, 
with the lightness and curvature of wafting smoke, 
peppery and aromatic when stirred with the sense of the world.  

Like a salve that’s seeped through my skin, the medicine has been doing it’s work inside a pulsed fever,  
burning some old demons, who pretend to perish rattling their cages.  

So if you have hired the craft of a Faye apothecary,  
I am fallen  
and my name is David.  

But if the whiskey has been presenting mirages it may be that, next morning, a cold shower is in order. 

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