I was and If I was

I was passing by the world. I only saw a glimpse of what I should have. I stared and stared at golden suns pouring spoonfuls of their violet milk into pools of broken eyes. Oh my Lord, whose arms are those around me currently, keeping me safe from the shards of winter winds? Are they yours or are they my own? Am I so weak that I have succumbed to your will without my knowledge, unable to consciously make that decision for myself? Or am I so strong that I created my own God, one with large hands like my father's. A God bearing the scent of my mother, a scent that clings to my memories and drags them back as silhouettes on tear-filtered nights. My palms are placed on cement blocks, my head hung low enough to drip the black off my hair. The four minutes and two seconds of sanity some song provides me will only endure the sorrow for as long as the five struck piano keys in the distance remain ringing in my ears. I used to be lonely, but not like this.
Whose voice is this that squeaks from my parched lips? The puckered wrinkles on these hands are not my own, the pictures hanging on the wall are those of yesterday. That is a picture of my grandfather, that is one of my daddy before he knew the picture of my grandfather would be too precious too soon. Why am I not strong? If I had a boat, I'd crawl the ocean to October 31st, when Viktorria brushed my hair back and Elisa's hugs held me together. Then I would go back to a Sunday afternoon, when my parents and I watched television together, anything together. Anything with someone other than myself.