Fine line black heart outline with the word love in cursive script on the inner wrist and forearm.

Love script inside a heart on the wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A single black heart outline with the word love written in flowing cursive script, the lettering running along the right-hand side of the heart. The linework is thin and even, with no shading, and the ink is solid black against the skin. The design sits centrally on the inner wrist with a plain, softly lit background.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Heart Love Script Outline

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit nearer the fire, you lot, and mind the cat, because this is the one about Brother Anselm and the ink that would not stay where he put it. It was the winter the abbey ran short of vellum, and the abbot sent him to finish the calendar of feast days with nothing but the scraps left from a burned Gospel.

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Anselm was a copyist with a steady hand and a bad habit. Each evening, when the bell had gone for compline and the others were asleep in their cells, he drew small things in the margins. A bee. A broken oar. And once, quite by accident he swore, a heart, its point turned toward the gutter of the page. The novice who kept the lamps saw it first and laughed, and the next morning the abbot came in with his cloak still wet from the yard and asked what business a heart had in a book of saints.

Anselm said nothing for a while. Then he took up his pen and wrote a word inside the curve, looping the letters so they ran down the right-hand side like a stream finding the low ground. Love, he wrote. The abbot read it twice, because it was not Latin and it was not any hand he had trained. Anselm admitted it was English, the tongue his mother had sung in, and that the feast days could wait a week for one line that would outlast all of them.

The abbot leaned over the desk, where the ink was still wet and shining. He did not scrape it away. He only said the calendar would need a second page for the Annunciation, and went out, and the bell rang for lauds. Anselm's page is still in the library if you ask for it. The heart is thin as a hair, the word curls along its edge, and nobody in the abbey ever scraped it out, so the monks who came after copied it into every book they made.