Trouble

She's good, to me and looks-wise.
Is she as young as she looks,
Or an old soul in disguise,
Or casually plotting my demise?

When she comes near, eyes alight,
I have no choice but to put up a fight,
'cause she's certainly something,
(and I'm not) alright.

She must feel me sweat, quick breath-taking,
Knees and voice both near to quaking.
This whole thing's a heap of trouble,
The worst of my own making.