It's Like Riding a Bike... Not.

Everyone tells me it gets easier. They lied.
It's like riding a bike, they say. You might not do it for a couple years, but you always remember how to work that machine when you do the next summer. You are still steady and don't wobble. You don't forget what it feesl like to pedal with your legs, with the wind blowing through your hair. That feeling stays with you no matter how long it's been since you sat on that seat. But those people were wrong.
It's not like riding a bike at all. It's been a year and I don't remember much of anything. Sure, I know I should be able to remember what his hair feels like, the softness of his lips as they press mine. I should be able to recall the smoothness of his hands and the firmness of his chest when I lay my head to rest. But I don't. Not really.
It's as though I need training wheels again. As if I can't ride on my own anymore because the part of me that kept me stable is gone. And knowing when it's coming back doesn't help a bit.
They all told me it gets easier; that once you've hit that one year mark, everything looks brighter because the number only gets smaller from here. You're no longer counting up to twelve, but down from it. You've gotten halfway and you're still going strong, they say.
So why do I feel as though I want to break? Like my half a heart is going to shatter into a thousand pieces at any moment because it can't handle not having its other half? Because that missing piece of heart is half a world away in a country I love dearly.
If it's just like riding a bike as they say, why can't I pick myself and ride off into the sunset or up a mountainside? Why do I need training wheels again?
But most importantly, why can't I do this on my own?