Two people show matching black lettering reading "You're my person" with a small red heart on the calf, in a lettering style.

Matching "You're my person" calf tattoos

Lettering · Calf · Mixed · Photo

Two people's lower legs are shown side by side, each with the same tattoo of the words "You're my person" in black handwritten-style lettering, stacked over three lines. A small red heart sits below the text on each calf. The tattoos are placed at matching positions on the calves, against a plain grey floor and dark clothing.

Lettering Calf Lettering Heart Text Matching tattoo Couple

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Gull-cry and diesel hung over Newlyn harbour the morning the Mary Ellen Rowe went out a hand short. Tomas Penhale stood on the quay with his oilskins half zipped and watched the skipper count heads, and he knew before anyone said it that Dess Carew would be the one to go. She had signed on for the summer only. Her sister in Penzance was poorly, and a bus timetable sat folded in her coat pocket, which she kept checking as though it might rearrange itself.

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Before the boat cleared the breakwater, Tomas climbed the wheelhouse ladder with a tin of white enamel and a brush he had borrowed from the chandlery and not returned. He had not planned it. He painted in small, leaning capitals across the wooden board above the window, then stopped and redid the letters smaller when the first line ran wider than the grain. YOU'RE. MY. PERSON. Under it, with the last of the red paint from a buoy tin, he drew a heart that came out lopsided, the way hearts do when a man is trying not to think about what he is doing.

The weather turned off the Lizard. Spray came over the bows in grey sheets, and the skipper swore at the blackened nets and at the paint, which he could read through the streaming glass and did not like. Tomas hauled until his shoulders would not straighten. Each time he looked up, the words were still there under the salt, and he found himself steering by them the way he steered by the church tower on a clear day.

They came in on the evening tide. Dess was waiting on the quay with her bag over one shoulder and her bus ticket torn in half in her fist. She looked at the board for a long time before she climbed up to read it properly. When she came down again, she had red paint on the heel of her hand, and she did not wipe it off.