Oh, J. Alfred. Do you?
I was reading through some online analysis of your love song last night. (Yes. I was. I was an English Major. I am related to many an English Major. And for those of you who don't like T. S. Elliot, well, I'm sorry. He seems to be a funny fellow.)
Everyone was saying that this is some internal dialogue with yourself. You, middle-age, slightly balding and currently single. Afraid to talk to women? No. You are talking to someone who might be in love with you right now. Or, actually, avoiding talking. And you are not man enough to handle it. Yes, you are running away, afraid that you either misunderstand the girl across from you sipping tea, or you are just afraid. So I agree with that portion of the analysis.
Dear J. Alfred. Stop being such a wimp. Guys like you abound, and you are annoying. Eat the stupid peach already. Enough of your ephemeral musings on fog and smoke. You, like so many seem to be a commitment-phobe and you are trying to cover it up with poetic nature.
Either that, or you're just using this girl because nothing better has come along. But you don't want to let her go because it's convenient.
J. Alfred Prufrock, I am ashamed of you. Grow up.