Most likely

I will most likely die on some moonlit Thursday at midnight.

The scattered dreams, burned to ash in the steam of a half-drunk cup of tea, clinging to the rooftop railing, will smile knowingly at me that day.

Yes, most likely I will die with the regret of too many books left unfinished, leaving my beloved library behind; or else I will simply fade away, gasping with the sorrow of never placing a black piano before my eyes, the ache of never spending time on a balcony wrapped in green carpet, or the emptiness of never lying open-mouthed beneath the sky in a vast green field.

Most likely, in grief at my death, a few green leaves from the silk cotton tree in front of my house will turn deep gray and fall silently, eleven rosebuds will die before blooming.

The cockroach that has made its home under my bed will probably eat nothing for three days. The cat that follows at my heels will search for me around the house, mewing. The dog I sometimes feed biscuits by the roadside will wait for me along my usual path. After my death, I will live on in the moments of their waiting.

After death my name will become "corpse," but to them I will always remain a beloved friend, because they don't understand death. Only humans will be unmoved by news of my death. Only humans know how to forget and ignore death. Those who keep me so busy that I constantly push myself away—when I die, it won't take them long to forget me.

Yes, most likely on some Thursday in Boishakh month, at midnight or very early morning, I will have a perfectly ordinary death. Ordinary, because once I'm gone, people will never look for me again. Where humans don't even search for humans, what logic would there be in searching for a corpse?