Thomas Bartholemeuz's favourite image of Natalie Cruz
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Natalie came when the day was deep,
a whispered knock, a breath, a leap.
Leggings tight, like painted skin,
a tight black top, inviting sin.
"¿Me extrañaste?"—words like silk,
voice as smooth as honeyed milk.
No lace, no heels, yet she moved with grace,
just fire and sweat, and beauty's face.
Her body moved, let the dance begin,
a runner’s poise, a tiger’s grin.
Hands like embers, lips like heat,
a rhythm fierce, a pulse offbeat.
She didn't stay to see the dawn,
to watch the night stretch out and yawn.
A kiss, a laugh, an unexpected dare
then Natalie vanished, light as air.
But in my bones, in sheets, in space,
her scent still lingers, holds its place.
Like citrus, musk, and something rare—
a ghost of Natalie in activewear.
a whispered knock, a breath, a leap.
Leggings tight, like painted skin,
a tight black top, inviting sin.
"¿Me extrañaste?"—words like silk,
voice as smooth as honeyed milk.
No lace, no heels, yet she moved with grace,
just fire and sweat, and beauty's face.
Her body moved, let the dance begin,
a runner’s poise, a tiger’s grin.
Hands like embers, lips like heat,
a rhythm fierce, a pulse offbeat.
She didn't stay to see the dawn,
to watch the night stretch out and yawn.
A kiss, a laugh, an unexpected dare
then Natalie vanished, light as air.
But in my bones, in sheets, in space,
her scent still lingers, holds its place.
Like citrus, musk, and something rare—
a ghost of Natalie in activewear.
