Time is a thief,
A thief of plans in our task notes,
A thief of dreams from our bucket list,
But time steals people too.
How is it we pass strangers through the streets each day,
Strangers who make it to the end of the day,
And those we were the last to see with hands in their pockets,
Strangers we don't get to see in their tinted cars,
And all those friends who turn into strangers,
Maybe we just should not take a thing for granted,
Guess of all we knew, one, if we'd be seeing them for their last,
We'd be a little kinder and sweeter than the freeloaders we've become.