A writer is dead?

A lot of water has passed under the bridge since the days you inspired my writing. Remember the time when i'd write poetry to woo you or use eloquence to serenade you, days when your smile inspired sonnets after sonnets.
I write today, too, just that poetry is now long dead and for the little prose that remains, there isnt much hope either.
Strange, but I can't quite imagine any emotion without you: my writing lacks radiance for it hasn't seen your beaming smile for years, my words don't emote tears for they haven't seen you cry for ages; my thoughts lack warmth for they haven't seen a hug for eons and my creativity just refuses to impress for it hasn't been appreciated in a long long time.
But I still try my bit and, write a lot with the little that remains. Now, I search for radiance in them who bring light to me in my darkest hour, I search for tears in the umpteen tragedies i've had the privilege to be part of, my thoughts gain their warmth from the embers that flicker of your memories immolated long ago and my creativity has just learnt that it can do just as well without appreciation.
Tragedy, however, is that they who read me then are pained to read me now. They look for humour and I don't have any to offer, they seek power, but i feel enfeebled..they want commitment and I'm plain scared of the word.
But, they are insidious and have conspired to inspire me, to restore faith in my letters. I wish them good luck! For in their success lies the odds of a writer's resurgence and in their failure lies his obituary!