Is it so wrong of me to want a story with Connor and Angel, where the young, hip barista thinks it so sweet that someone as young, hot and rich as the football-shouldered pale guy in leather still takes his 70-year-old blue-eyed grandfather (he looks like Peter O'Toole. Is that wrong?) out for coffee every Tuesday?

No, it's not wrong at all. Or is it so wrong it's right? Either way, it must be done.

Your poem is AMAZING. So incredible, wow, I'm in awe, I can't even leave coherent thoughts.