Identity, of what some of us lack, which some of us get swallowed up by. The feeling of your words, the nuances of your tone, the emotive language of your being. We're caught up in different covers, the beds we left unfulfilled, glasses left half-empty with patchwork flesh bound with less-than reliable memories. Fog clouds our vision in the mirror, bodies that feel foreign, as if the skin's innards are someone, or something else's.