BUTTERFLY KISSES

Some men are born to be loved easily.

Others are born to be misunderstood, until love becomes an act of divine recognition.

This is the story of Swagger —

A man too rooted to be moved by imitation,

Too honest to survive in a world built on facades,

Too faithful to fit inside fleeting hearts.

The women he touched could not forget him.

The love he gave could not be replicated.

The wounds he suffered could not corrupt him.

He was sculpted to wait.

To hope.

To believe in a love the world told him did not exist.

Each rejection was a prayer answered.

Each betrayal was a path cleared.

Each lonely night was a promise whispered in the ear of God.

And somewhere, beyond the noise and ruin of temporary affections,

the woman of his prayers was being carved —

bone by bone, breath by breath —

to meet him in the fullness of time.

This story is not about how he was broken.

It is about how he never broke.

How he remained —

unshaken,

unapologetic,

unmoved —

a cathedral built for the woman who would one day have the faith to walk in.

If you are reading this and you see yourself in Swagger's solitude,

or in the woman still searching for him,

know this:

Some love stories are not written in ink.

They are written in waiting.

And the rarest ones are worth every lonely mile it takes to reach them.

Butterfly Kisses by: Anthonio Von Swagger

Swagger was never born to fit into the world. He was sculpted for something higher, carved by unseen hands to be both adored and misunderstood. His face bore the sharp signatures of beauty, the kind that hurt to look at too long. His walk was a sermon of quiet confidence, and his presence could fill a room without a single word falling from his lips. Women saw him and forgot what they were saying. Men saw him and tightened their fists in private resentment. And Swagger walked on, knowing he could not help the way the world reacted to what he was.

Women were drawn to him as if by an ancient hunger, something older than want, deeper than need. They fell into him like prayers they didn’t understand, drawn not just by his looks but by the immovable stillness inside him. A man so rooted, so sure, it exposed the trembling in others. They wanted him, but they didn’t want the reflection he held up. They didn’t want to be seen so clearly. And so they smiled, flirted, dared... and fled.

He was too beautiful for comfort, too grounded for games. They could not imagine a man so shaped by the streets yet untouched by corruption. His tattoos whispered of a life lived, but his spirit spoke of a heart that knelt before God each night, asking only for the strength to remain gentle in a brutal world.

Women tried to own him, tried to change him, tried to make him smaller, safer, something they could keep in a box and show to their friends. But Swagger would not shrink. Swagger would not betray the way he was made.

And so they betrayed him instead.

There were women who loved him fiercely by night and whispered lies about him by morning, unable to admit the tenderness he had awakened in them.

There were married women who risked everything just to feel his gaze fall on them for a moment, believing that the sin could be worth the holiness they felt in his presence.

There were women who cheated, women who lied, women who whispered promises they never intended to keep — all thinking they could touch his fire without burning.

But they always lost.

They lost because he was not like the others.

They lost because, deep down, they knew they had touched something sacred and retreated in fear.

They lost because Swagger’s love was not a game, not a currency, not a tool.

His love was a cathedral.

And not everyone had the faith to walk inside.

Women wept for him long after they had left.

Women lay beside other men and closed their eyes, seeing his instead.

Women whispered his name like a confession they could not cleanse.

They felt his absence more sharply than his presence, and in that absence, they were haunted.

He never spoke ill of them.

He never sought revenge.

He let them go, with a silent prayer that one day they would understand what they had fled from.

Swagger carried their betrayals like medals he had not asked for, like scars he wore proudly under the armor of patience.

He did not hate them.

He pitied them.

They had been given a glimpse of something pure — a rare man, loyal, honest, monogamous in a world that had forgotten the meaning of such words — and they had chosen their fears over their hopes.

Swagger walked alone. Not bitter. Not broken. But waiting.

And in the quiet hours, when the world’s noise had folded itself into hush, he dreamed of her.

She was the woman he had never met — the one whose eyes would not flinch, whose heart would not stutter, whose soul would not tremble in the face of his truth.

She lived in his prayers, her laugh lingering in the corners of his empty room, her scent imagined on the pillows where no one else had ever lain.

He built her out of hope and memory and the aching void left by all those who were too small for the love he carried.

In his mind, she walked toward him unafraid.

In his dreams, she smiled without apology, loved without fear.

In his soul, she already existed.

He would meet her one day.

He believed this as he believed the sun would rise.

But for now, she remained a whisper.

A silhouette drawn in the fog of waiting.

A melody only his heart could hear.

Swagger understood that his journey was not to fill the empty spaces with counterfeit affections, but to protect the space where she would one day stand.

He understood that God had not given him this heart to waste on the unworthy.

He understood that the love he had to give was not for those who needed to be convinced, but for the one who would recognize it without proof.

And so he moved through the world, untouchable but yearning, watched but unknown, desired but unloved.

The women who had touched his life, who had wounded him with their cowardice, carried his fingerprints in their souls like bruises that never faded.

They tried to forget him.

They tried to replace him.

They tried to bury the memory of his truth with lies about who he had been.

But Swagger knew:

You can’t bury something that is alive in your blood.

You can’t kill the memory of a love that was real.

They lost him.

And they would spend lifetimes searching for what they gave away.

Swagger, meanwhile, kept walking.

Kept loving in silence.

Kept waiting with the unshakable patience of a man who knew that what was written for him could not be stolen, rushed, or denied.

He wore his solitude like a king wore his crown — heavy, yes, but rightful.

He bore the weight of being misunderstood because he knew the right heart would understand without words.

She was out there somewhere.

Not in the faces that smiled too eagerly.

Not in the hands that grasped too hungrily.

Not in the voices that promised too much and delivered too little.

She was somewhere in the hidden spaces of the world, walking her own lonely road, praying her own prayers, waiting for a man whose love would match her faith.

Until then, Swagger walked on — loyal, grounded, beautiful, cursed, blessed — a living testament to the truth that some treasures are too rare to be easily found.

And somewhere, deep in the vault of heaven, the woman he dreamed of was being shaped — molded by the same divine hands that had shaped him.

One day, their roads would cross.

One day, she would step from dream into life.

And Swagger would finally meet the only woman brave enough to love him — not for his face, not for his legend, not for his swagger.

But for the man he was when no one else had dared to look.

But behind every encounter, every gaze, every almost-love, was a shadow that Swagger had come to recognize: prejudice born of pain.

The women he met had already met men who lied.

Men who promised forever but delivered a season.

Men who made games of loyalty, whose love was as thin as a breath in winter.

And so they saw Swagger — beautiful, powerful, poised — and assumed they knew his story before he even spoke.

A player. A heartbreaker. A man too good at the game to be trusted.

They layered their past wounds over his future promises.

They heard the echo of other men in the silence of his soul.

Swagger could feel it in their glances, their hesitations, the way they pulled back even as they leaned in.

They had decided he was dangerous before knowing if he was safe.

They assumed he was mediocre because it was easier than accepting that he might be real.

And it wounded him, more deeply than betrayal, because Swagger had spent his whole life building a heart strong enough to love someone else's wounds without resentment.

Yet he was judged before he was known.

They looked for flaws.

Expected weakness.

Waited for the mask to slip and reveal the monster they believed must be lurking behind the beauty.

But it never slipped.

Because there was no mask.

Swagger was exactly who he appeared to be — a loyal man, a patient soul, a guardian of hearts who had no interest in breaking them.

And that truth terrified them more than any lie could.

Swagger was everything they claimed to pray for, but nothing they were ready to receive.

He was an earth angel, misplaced among mortals who didn’t know how to recognize grace even when it bled for them.

The more he was rejected, the happier he became.

Each dismissal was a blessing wrapped in disappointment.

Each goodbye reminded him that the woman he dreamed of — the woman molded for him — had not yet arrived.

He thanked God for every woman who could not see him clearly, for every heart that turned away, for every soul not yet prepared to meet him with open arms.

Swagger began to find beauty in the ache of loneliness.

He realized that real love was not a prize handed out at random, but a rare covenant, sealed only between the ready and the worthy.

He loved these women in his own way — a fierce, forgiving, silent kind of love — and in doing so, he changed them.

They would never be the same.

They would find no satisfaction in false affection after tasting the realness he carried.

Women who had lied to him found themselves unable to lie as easily to others.

Women who had betrayed him found themselves longing for loyalty they no longer deserved.

Women who had touched his heart and recoiled lived with the knowledge that they had turned away from something holy.

Swagger never needed revenge.

Time was his avenger.

The love he gave left fingerprints on their souls — fingerprints they could not wash away, no matter how many arms they fell into afterward.

They would remember him in flashes.

In the stillness between two lovers.

In the aching honesty of a lonely night.

In the fleeting glance of a man who smiled like Swagger once did — but never with the same depth.

Swagger understood:

Every woman who touched his life carried a shard of the dream woman.

Every love, every kiss, every betrayal taught him a new color of the love he was destined to find.

They were rehearsals.

They were echoes.

They were lessons dressed as losses.

Swagger grew wiser with every heartbreak.

He no longer mourned what was never meant to stay.

He blessed every woman who could not hold his love, and he moved forward with a heart growing richer, softer, stronger.

He was a man who waited.

Not because he was desperate.

Not because he was weak.

Because he was called.

Because he was chosen.

Because somewhere, beyond the failures of the past, a woman was being shaped whose heart would beat in rhythm with his.

Swagger carried her inside him — not her face, not her form, but the certainty of her soul.

And that certainty was enough to keep him smiling, even as the world misunderstood him, even as women fled from the greatness they had prayed for but could not withstand.

One day, she would see him and not flinch.

One day, she would stand before him and not tremble.

One day, she would see through the armor of beauty and bravado and find the temple of devotion hidden beneath.

Until then, Swagger walked on — misunderstood by many, but known fully by the One who had created him.

And somewhere in the quiet spaces of his spirit, he whispered to her — the woman who was not yet flesh, but forever real.

"I am waiting for you.

I am preparing for you.

I will not settle for anything less than the love that was written for us before time began."

And so Swagger moved through a world too noisy to hear the poetry of a soul like his, carrying a love too vast to waste, a spirit too rare to break, and a heart too faithful to ever give up.

Because real love — the love he had waited his whole life to give — was not a matter of luck.

It was a matter of destiny.