Fine line tattoo of an infinity symbol joined to the word love in script, on the inner wrist.

Infinity symbol and love script on a wrist

Fine line · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A fine line tattoo of an infinity symbol that flows into the word love written in cursive script, shown across the wrist. The linework is thin and even, and the ink has faded to a pale, light tone against the skin. The tattoo sits centrally in the frame on plain skin, with soft natural light and a small patch of background at the left edge.

Fine line Lettering Other Infinity Love Script

Find an artist for this

Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Tiberius was still grumbling about the lime when I pressed the first curve of the figure into the wet bedding. It lay on its side, a loop that folded back on itself and never found an end, the sort of shape a man draws when he has nothing else to do with his hands. Marcus wanted a plain key pattern for the atrium, the same tired meander the governor's clerk had seen in every villa between here and Verulamium. I told him the key could wait. The eight had already gone down in red ochre, and nobody was going to rub it out.

Keep reading

I cut the pale tesserae from the Purbeck stone the coast trader had brought up the river, each no bigger than a barley grain, and I set them by lamplight while Verania sat on the step outside counting the day's coins twice. She sold eel pies at the Ludgate gate and never trusted a copper that came back warm. When I asked what the eight meant, she said it meant the pies would always sell, because the crowd always came round again. Then she laughed and told me to finish it properly. The tail of the loop ran out into a long, looping hand, the letters joined like vines, and I spelled out the one word I had never managed to say to her face in the workshop.

Marcus came to look on the last evening and asked what the curl at the end was. A name, I told him. Whose? The eel-seller's. He grunted and said it would never last under sandals. He was right about the tiles that carried the eight, which wore grey within a year as the governor's men tramped across them to the baths. The letters at the far end, set in white stone nearest the threshold, stayed sharp, because everyone stepped round them without thinking.