Every time we say goodbye

Phone blinks,
vibrates.
From what all, 
can I write poetry.

What?
No!
Am I so devoid of muses?
Can't write poetry on my phone.

Let my head move.
Dostoyevsky is killing me.
The green bookmark,
marks my snail pace reading.

What do I want?
Something, Someone.
My heart yearns for John Coltrane.
Every time we say goodbye.