My philosophy professor posed a question:

Mary, an expert in color—

The way light bends through rods and cones and the use of electromagnetic radiation—

Is blind to it, unable to even imagine the beauty

Of your sea foam eyes,

Rose petal lips. 

Does she, knowing every fact, every formula,

Truly know color? 
It got me thinking,

(I guess that’s the purpose of philosophy)

Did I really love you?