Two matching fine line tattoos in dark ink on skin, one reading love by the moon beside a crescent moon and one reading live by the sun beside a sun, shown on forearms.

Matching moon and sun script tattoos

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Two tattoos sit on separate areas of skin, each with a line of cursive script. The upper one reads love by the moon beside a crescent moon outline, and the lower one reads live by the sun beside a sun with a circle centre and ray petals. The linework is thin and uniform in dark blue-black ink, with no shading or colour, and the two pieces are framed diagonally across the photo.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Moon Sun Crescent Script Lettering Matching

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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 pass closed on the third day of snow, and the Hollin Inn became a house run on two clocks. Marta kept the kitchen from first light until the lamps were lit at four. Teodor took the bar and the back stairs once the guests had gone up and the wind began leaning on the shutters. They had not shared a room since October. What passed between them was a ledger on the dresser, its pages crowded with short instructions in two hands.

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Tonight she wrote, Bread for fourteen. The Dutch couple will not take butter. Beneath it, in his narrow capitals, he had written, Stove banked. Room six smokes if the damper sticks, so lift it and strike twice. He had left a candle stub beside the book, as he always did, and she set the dough to rise by its small flame while the house ticked and settled around her. Outside, the drifts had buried the sign for the village road, and the bell on the gate had long since stopped swinging.

On the fourth night she came down early and found him asleep on the settle, boots still on, snow melting from his collar onto the rug. She did not wake him. She took the pen and wrote beneath his last line, Come down when the loaves are out. I will have flour on my hands and I will not pretend I was waiting. Then she set the kettle over the coals and listened to his breathing change.

When the first loaf came out the colour of a struck match, he was standing in the doorway, hair flattened on one side, reading her words twice over. Neither of them said anything clever. He reached past her for the knife, and the window behind them began to pale, grey first and then gold, as if the sun had only been waiting for someone to notice it had come back.