Two photos of a fine line black script tattoo reading love is enough on the inner forearm.

Love is enough script on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Two photographs show the same thin black script tattoo reading love is enough, with the words in a flowing handwritten style. The left image is a close-up of the lettering, and the right image shows it on a forearm against a plain indoor background with a person in a white top and dark jeans. The ink is black, the linework is fine and even, and the composition keeps the text centred with the skin tone providing a light backdrop.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Word Handwriting

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

The snow had shut the pass to Saint Wenna's by the feast of the Holy Cross, and Brother Osric still had not finished the psalter for the bishop at Carrow. He had gold leaf for the capitals and no more gold, so he sat at his slanted desk with a cold inkwell and wished the weather would ease. Then the goatherd's girl, Maud, came up the track with a basket of eggs and a question she had carried all the way from the village.

Keep reading

Her mother was sick with the lung fever. The priest in the valley said only the holy oil kept in the monastery's cellar would help, and the abbot had sent word that it would not leave the mountain without a gift of worth. Maud had nothing but a pocketful of hazelnuts and two chapped hands. She asked Osric what a person could give that was worth a jar of oil.

Osric looked at the girl for a long while. Then he dipped his pen in the last of the black ink, cleared a space at the foot of the page, and wrote the words in the loose, running hand he used for letters home. Love is enough, he wrote, and the line bent over itself like a path up a hill. He blotted it and gave it to her as though it were nothing.

The abbot read the page that evening and said nothing for a time. In the morning the oil went down the mountain in a clay jar wrapped in wool, and Maud carried it under one arm, the scrap of vellum folded in her apron pocket, where it stayed for the rest of her life.