Here's a skinny
poem for you
it is dwarfed
by the paper 
it is written
on.  But it
is tall, like
a tree, white
and black scarred
a birch, leafless
pale in grey
day light, and
slight, like a 
delicate hand, its
fingers seem to
crumble in mine
nonetheless a beautiful
hand, not prim,
but clean, and
the fingers are
long, quite the
best way for
fingers to be,
they are not
fat, like mine;
although I am
taken with them,
the rest of 
you is nice
too, dear.  Your
lovely hand is
welcome to come
home with me
and hold mugs
of tea and 
enjoy the heating
system of my
room which makes
cold nights easier.