Coat tales

This jacket isn't warm by any means but it's soaked in the streets of praha
Each block patterned uniquely with each hand laid stone
The pocket still has the bonbon the stranger gave me
Lost in translation and lost from his room
Viennas courtyard terraces held up by white goddesses and their dust left on the shoulders of my jacket when I perched
Protected by serpents and bulgy eyed men
The pickled smell of the christkindlmarkt and
Its giant sour creamed potatoes
He and I agree we remember the sidewalks of Berlin blanketed in snow
But the only white we were seeing was the streamline of clouds and the paleness of their beautiful faces in the autumn light
The spirals of Amsterdam and the colour of it's constant-- like looking through a blue glass while under a canopy
That could also be the level at which we stood below the sea and that I was
Looking through my lashes
Most of the time
In London's stoned gates I didn't need it's use
The sun shone so brightly we sweat through our first layers
We were so high on new we didn't feel the rain either
I wish i could feel it again
Like I can smell it in this jacket